


How's It Gonna Be?

by rowenaaine



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexuality Spectrum, Batjokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Church of Jeremiah Valeska, Complicated Relationships, Criminal Masterminds, Discussion of Traumatic Brain Injury, Enemies to Something Not Quite Definable, Finale spoilers, Friends to Enemies, Gray-Asexuality, Homoromantic, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jeremiah Has Feelings, Kidnapping, Looking the Other Way, M/M, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Messiah Complex, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Psychological Torture, Romantic Friendship, Season 5 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Vigilantism, Wayleska - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 40,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenaaine/pseuds/rowenaaine
Summary: It had only been, after all, the first of his many (future) escapes from Arkham. He just needed time.  And maybe a blind eye - unacknowledged encouragement - from his dance partner. After all, does anyone truly enjoy dancing alone?Our story starts just after the events of Gotham 5x12, and goes back in time to fill in the blanks between Jeremiah Valeska's accident at Ace Chemicals and his first encounter with the Bat. As we'll see when these two finally confront their feelings, love never dies. It just morphs into something that both parties can live with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be." 
> 
> If you aren't familiar, have a listen. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rE1oIhSgTgI

( _Present Day)_

"You'll call me the minute he wakes up, won't you, Bruce?"

Bruce Wayne looked up at the doorway where Commissioner Jim Gordon stood, looking disheveled, exhausted and not a little angry.

"Commissioner, no offense but do you think you're in a position..."

"Do _not_ question my fitness to interrogate the..." Gordon paused, and then spit out, " _suspect_ ," like a piece of tobacco caught in his teeth.

Just then, Detective Harvey Bullock appeared at Jim's left shoulder. "Jim, Jim. C'mon, the kid's right. It was your daughter, after all. Not a good idea. Do you want it thrown outta court?"

Gordon turned while Bullock cajoled him and wheedled for his indulgence, neither detective noticing how Bruce Wayne positively bristled at being referred to as " _kid."_ At twenty-eight years old, yes, he still had a youthful face and not a gray hair to speak of. But _kid,_ really?

"Let's go. I'm buyin'. Let Harper do the interrogation later when the, er, loony, is conscious." Bullock glanced warily at the figure strapped to the gurney as if it would miraculously pop up and kill them all with a well-placed stare. "Any luck, he'll be comatose for another few years." The detective winked conspiratorily at Bruce, who outwardly ignored the insensitive remark and inwardly shuddered at the thought.

"You're mighty flippant, calling him a loony. Just a few hours ago you were still so terrified of him you were willing to take the rap for murder," Gordon retorted, testily.

Bullock cringed, fingers twisting in anxiety. "Shit. D'ya think he heard me?" Gordon raised a brow and gestured his chin toward the exit. Before Bullock's footsteps could fade down the hall, Gordon turned back.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, Commissioner?"

"Sure you want to hang around here? You were lucky enough to miss the festivities while they were happening. If I were you, I'd want to avoid him altogether."

Bruce sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Jim, I appreciate the thought. But if my return was the catalyst for his breakout, I'd just as soon stick around. See with my own eyes and whatnot."

Bullock popped his head back in. "S'your funeral, kid."

Gordon shrugged.

Bruce clenched his fists and faked a tolerant smile.

When the recovery room was finally silent save for the rubber soles of orderlies in the hallway, Bruce took a seat next to the gurney. The clock on the wall showed that it was just 1 o'clock in the morning. Bruce carefully looked over the unconscious man in front of him now that he had the chance. Stitches from a head injury were covered neatly with gauze above a mottled, scarred face that had been recently cleaned of white greasepaint and red lipstick. The man's right hand, sliced neatly through the palm, was also stitched up and swaddled in bandages. Antibiotics and morphine dripped steadily into a vein in the crook of the man's left elbow, his flashy suit and colorful coat replaced temporarily by a hospital gown before he'd have to don the familiar Arkham stripes once more. 

"What did you do?" Bruce Wayne hissed at the man in a furious whisper. Of course, there was no response. He'd been here before. 

"Why didn't you let them know you were awake?" he admonished bitterly, unshed tears clinging to his dark eyelashes. No matter, there was no one to hear or see him except maybe rats in the air vents.

So very tired, he sat back and waited.

***

_(Ten Years Earlier)_

_I'm only pretty sure that I can't take anymore_  
_Before you take a swing_  
_I wonder what are we fighting for_

A gun. A whip. A knife. A frantic chase through the wet streets of Gotham. A struggle on a catwalk. A bubbling cauldron of destruction. And then it was over.

Everything was over.

_When I say out loud_  
_I want to get out of this_  
_I wonder is there anything_  
_I'm going to miss_

"You're moving him...now?"

"Mr. Wayne, with the successful reunification it's time for us to unburden Gotham General with the cases that are no longer viable for short-term treatment. As you know, Mr. Valeska has shown no improved brain function since his accident. We don't have the staff to watch over a felon..."

" _Defendent_ ," Bruce interjected, hands twitching into fists at his sides. He leaned in and read the woman's name tag. " _Sherrie_ ," he sneered, "he can't be convicted of a crime if he's mentally incapacitated." 

Jim Gordon put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Easy, Bruce."

"Yes, as I was saying," the young Physician's Assistant continued nonplussed, "we need to have him moved to a more secure facility. And we need the bed," she added smugly.

"Let me handle this, Sherrie." Dr. Leslie Thomkins had quietly entered the room after receiving an urgent text from Jim. "Hi, Bruce."

"Lee. Please explain why this has to happen already." 

Jim peered at Lee over Bruce's shoulder and mouthed a grateful "Thank you."

"Please, have a seat, Bruce." Lee led Bruce to a round table in the corner of the room, away from the unconscious patient that was the subject of their discussion. "Look, I know this has been difficult for you. But as the Hospital Administrator, I have to be very frank. There is nothing more I can do for Jeremiah here. The best place for him is long-term care."

Bruce knew this to be true. In fact, the odds of Jeremiah's recovery steadily decreased every day.

But Bruce was nothing if not stubborn.

After the showdown with Bane had successfully concluded and the government finally restored order to Gotham, Bruce had, against Alfred and Selina's wishes, come back to visit Jeremiah at Gotham General. He'd begun regularly sitting at Jeremiah's bedside. Once the immediacy of the Ace Chemicals "incident" had passed, his anger had cooled and he just wanted Jeremiah back; the old Jeremiah, the crazy Jeremiah, it didn't matter. He spent three weeks visiting daily, talking to his unconscious friend (enemy? Bruce didn't know what the hell to call him) in the hopes that his voice would trigger something in that amazing genius brain and start his synapses firing again. But it didn't happen. Not even a twitch of a finger. It was as though Jeremiah Valeska was dead but for the breathing and heartbeat.

The man had suffered a traumatic brain injury - not from the chemicals themselves - but from Jeremiah's body hitting the surface of the liquids from such a height that it was like landing on cement. The fail-safe built into the vats detected the movement right away and once he broke the surface, the tank emptied rapidly. But the force of the jolt to his head and neck caused immediate unconsciousness.

When Jeremiah was first treated, Lee had consulted with several neurologists. The one Bruce was most comfortable with, a Dr. Welden, explained to Bruce that had Jeremiah remained conscious after hitting the surface, panic would have led him to gulp down chemicals in his struggles, burning through his esophagus and almost certainly resulting in immediate drowning. Being unconscious literally saved his life; in shock, his body sank to the bottom at nearly the same rate the chemicals flushed out of the drains. He ingested very little as his breathing, lung capacity and heart rate all slowed to conserve energy. Of course, the chemicals did other, more obvious, damage. The fact that Jeremiah had on so many layers of clothing protected most of his body from the third and fourth degree burns that he received to his head, neck, and wrists.

"Bruce, we've been over this before. With Jeremiah remaining completely unconscious, what we refer to as a comatose state, there is little we can do for him at Gotham General. In my professional opinion, he would be best served in a setting where he can have constant care and might progress to the next stage of treatment and potentially rehabilitation. Unless he progresses to a vegetative state, we really can do nothing except make him comfortable."

"Make him comfortable, like preparing him for his death," Bruce huffed, unwilling to accept the diagnosis nor the recommendation. "So, I'll fly him to Switzerland."

Jim Gordon let out a heavy sigh. "Bruce, you know that's not an option. Jeremiah is a dangerous criminal. A terrorist. A mass murderer."

"Stop!" Bruce said, hand out toward Gordon. "I know better than anyone what he's done," he spat through gritted teeth. "But what can he do to harm anyone now? He's as good as dead. Let me take care of him."

"No can do. Let me remind you, you are not Jeremiah's next of kin. Lee's been very good about providing his care here, but it's time for him to be moved to Arkham Asylum."

"What does Arkham know about treating traumatic brain injury? At best, they'll just roll him into a cell and let him die."

"Bruce, maybe it's time you...well, let go."

Bruce Wayne stood up and kicked his chair backward. He stormed out, slamming his shoulder into Alfred Pennyworth as he came through the door.

"Well, I was looking for Master Bruce, but I see..."

"You've found him," Jim muttered. "I hope I don't have to arrest him for impeding police business when they transport Valeska to Arkham this afternoon."

"Oh, dear."

Meanwhile, Jeremiah Valeska slept on, unaware of his situation or Bruce's vigil at his bedside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have readers that are patiently (more like, impatiently) waiting for updates to my other WIPs. I'm happy to say it looks like we've finally sold our house and will be moving out of state in September. I'm still looking for work but getting a little of my mojo back so I hope this is the first of many new pieces I drop onto AO3, along with updates to Paying For It and Fairy Tales are Fiction. Thanks for your love and encouragement, as always.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

Jim hadn't needed to worry; Bruce didn't show up for the transfer from Gotham General to Arkham. He was smart enough to know his temper would temporarily land him in jail regardless of who he was or what he'd done to help Gotham. He'd be of no help to Jeremiah like that. So he waited it out and once Jeremiah was settled in (as best as a comatose body could be settled anywhere), Bruce paid the newest warden a visit.

A little cash (okay, a _lot_ ) was all that was needed to get Warden Simmons to promise that she would notify Bruce of any change in Jeremiah's condition. Alfred had advised against it, of course. He wanted Bruce to move on, much like Jim wanted him to move on and Lee wanted him to move on and Selina wanted him to move on. He would _not_.

Part of him still loved Jeremiah. Not quite the kind of love Jeremiah had displayed in the end (and how awful is it to use the word _end_ to describe their relationship and potentially Jeremiah's life) - not the obsessive, freakish, stalker kind of love that seemed to have taken hold of the genius engineer after exposure to the insanity gas. Bruce felt a softer kind of love, one that had bloomed in his heart during those early days in the bunker like a flower opening to the sun. Bruce had thought, no...had _known_ Jeremiah had felt that same soft kind of love - before it all went wrong. 

_Where we used to laugh_  
_There's a shouting match_  
_Sharp as a thumbnail scratch_

Bruce couldn't let go. 

Bruce believed. He believed that Jeremiah would someday regain consciousness and maybe even regret what had happened - he'd regret the bombs and the bridges, regret shooting Selina and reenacting the Wayne murders...regret every bit of it, all the damage that put an irrevocable wedge between them. Bruce wanted to be there to welcome Jeremiah back; to protect him when he would be as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Maybe he wouldn't remember what he'd done but he could at least get the best treatment money could buy for his mental illness. Bruce would take care of him; he just wanted him back and he wanted Jeremiah to know he'd been there all along, waiting. Waiting for Jeremiah to come back to life; to _come home_.

A few weeks after the arrangement with Warden Simmons, Jim Gordon was promoted to Police Commissioner, various Gothamites received medals of bravery, and Bruce said his goodbyes. It was time to leave Gotham. He couldn't do what he needed to protect his city in the future unless he transformed himself. He couldn't do it here under the watchful eyes of his friends and acquaintances and he couldn't do it with concern for Jeremiah's welfare drumming a constant beat in his heart. He had to make his way in the world; locate the best teachers, learn the best strategies, uncover the best Bruce Wayne inside of himself. 

Bruce left town on an itinerary that only he knew; Tibet was the first stop. Alfred was given a private mobile number at which to reach Bruce in the event of an emergency. The butler only used the number three times over the following decade. One of those times was to let him know that Jeremiah Valeska was awake. In a manner of speaking.

A little over a year after Bruce left, an Arkham orderly discovered Jeremiah's eyes had opened. Rather than properly alert a doctor, the orderly took off screaming down the nearest stairwell. Jeremiah was found staring blankly at the ceiling, a rather unsettling picture to be sure for anyone stopping by to check his vitals. (The orderly was fired, nevertheless.) The staff gave the formerly comatose patient a complete neurological workup over the following days. He was not conscious, it was determined, but his brain had slowly but surely moved into a vegetative state, marked by the beginnings of a normal sleep/wake cycle. In conjunction with this cycle, Jeremiah's eyes would involuntarily open when awake and close when asleep. But that was the extent of the change.

Bruce called Warden Simmons from an undisclosed location to get further details that she did not release to the butler. There was no need for the billionaire to fly home because there was no other improvement. Jeremiah's pupils remained unchanged in reaction to light. He did not blink. He did not respond to commands nor did he attempt speech. He still required the use of a feeding tube and assistance with other bodily functions, such as suctioning of his saliva and continued use of a catheter to collect waste. He made no obvious, purposeful movement. He still needed to be turned in bed to prevent pressure sores. But he was now sat in a wheelchair during his waking hours and sometimes wheeled into the sunlight. He had his muscles gently stretched more frequently to prevent atrophy. But no, there was no reason for Bruce to return to Gotham. Jeremiah Valeska was still completely unaware of his surroundings and had little to no brain function.

Simmons assured Bruce there would be further updates if the situation changed and Jeremiah became even minimally conscious. If Jeremiah began to track something with his eyes, or gesture, or reach for an object Bruce would be the first to know.

But neither Alfred nor Bruce was contacted again about Jeremiah's progress over the next nine years.

Bruce called every now and then, curious, but to no avail.

There was never any progress to report.

_***_

_(Six Years Later)_

Jeremiah Valeska had been in Arkham Asylum for seven years, six of them in a vegetative state. He didn't know that, of course. He wasn't conscious.

The neurologist thought it would be good for Jeremiah to be out and about. He was strapped to the wheelchair so if he should awaken, the other inmates would be in no immediate danger from the insane and unpredictable mass murderer.

But it was Jeremiah that was usually in danger of bodily harm.

Inmates would alternate between awe and disdain when they would come across Valeska's silent wheelchair set amidst their general population. They would take bets with each other, daring to poke and prod the unconscious man. After all, what better victim to have than someone who couldn't fight back?

The orderlies and guards usually looked away. Seemed harmless enough. Valeska wasn't going to rat them out.

The doctors would wonder why, when they examined Valeska every so often, the man would have unaccounted for bruises on his legs or arms. But it wasn't serious enough to warrant an investigation.

One day, when Valeska received a particularly hard slap to his face from an inmate named Charlie Considine, his eyelids flickered. Considine let out a squeal, not unlike a pig being led to the slaughter and he took off running. Other inmates dissolved into fits of laughter, having no idea what had happened. Considine wasn't smart enough to explain what he saw, but he babbled incoherently that the villain was coming after him.

Valeska remained motionless although he'd started listing a bit to the right from the force of the slap.

Edward Nygma, known to all in Gotham as The Riddler, snickered and strolled over to the wheelchair. 

"Hey Chucky? You afraid of ol' Jeremiah Potatohead here? Look, he's _fine_." Nygma straightened Jeremiah Valeska in his seat and lightly tapped his face. Then, with a nasty look, Nygma viciously pinched the unconscious man’s cheek right over the red hand print Charlie left behind before walking away, whistling. 

Nygma felt proud as a peacock.

Behind him, Jeremiah blinked.

Two bleary eyes quite unused to looking at anything tried to focus. 

_Was that a number?_

The disused vision honed in on Nygma's prison uniform.

_171_

_No. That's not right._

_D-171_

He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know where he was. He didn't even know _who_ he was.

But he was suddenly, vaguely _aware_.

_There were numbers here._

He liked numbers, didn't he? Did he?

_Huh._

That was as good a start as any.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics from the Third Eye Blind song "How's It Going To Be."

Seven years of complete silence in his head. Nothing but a black void.

Now, awareness. 

The suddenness of it was frightening. It was confusing. Most importantly, it was something he had to keep to himself. He _knew_ that, innately. He could not let them know that anything had changed.

_They aren't nice here and I have to be very, very careful._

Slowly as the days went by, he began to recognize things. Walls. Windows. Windows with bars. Chairs. Chairs with wheels...no, wheelchairs. He was in a wheelchair. They wheeled him around and never spoke to him. So, he certainly never spoke to them. He maintained a blank facade, staring, staring, staring. It seemed to do the trick. He kept his face very, very still. Did not move his eyes. It was like a game. How long could he go on not blinking? The answer: quite a long while. By the time he needed to blink, no one was looking.

Why was he here? Was he paralyzed? Was he dying? What had happened to him?

He'd figure it out. He seemed to remember being smart. He started to remember numbers and calculations, making things. Drawings. Sketches. He liked puzzles and mazes.

_Mazes._

For some reason, the word thrilled him.

He couldn't trust his mind right now, but he trusted these people even less. They probably wouldn't kill him, no. But they wouldn't do much to help him. So he'd have to help himself. For now, he would bide his time. He would watch and wait and learn.

He seemed to remember being a very patient man.

_(Six months later)_

It wasn't difficult at all to fool these people. After all, no one really cared about him here and most of them were ridiculously stupid.

He received very cursory care. They fed him - with a tube stuck carelessly down his throat until he pretended to choke a little; then they fed him with a smaller tube hooked up to a vein. Needles were fine. He liked that method better even after the discovery that he had no gag reflex; the tube had just been too scratchy. They medicated him - but not with psych meds, although he understood now that he was in an asylum, not a hospital. He received vitamins and supplements, something to prevent seizures, and the occasional antibiotic treatment for the urinary tract infections he kept getting thanks to the damn catheter stuck in his dick. They cleaned him - not willingly, though. The orderlies were freaked out to bathe him; he found it quite funny but, of course, didn't laugh. They clothed him - he got a fresh uniform gown every week. (No need for pants if you couldn't walk or go to the bathroom on your own; his gown, in fashionable black and white prison stripes like the rest of the inmates, was held closed with snaps along the front for ease of access and it came down to his ankles. His feet were swaddled in thick cotton socks with rubberized treads on the bottom.) 

He could do nothing for himself because he had been in a coma for more than a year from some sort of impact trauma before improving to his current so-called vegetative state.

He knew all of this because when he was alone (and he was alone a lot) he read his medical chart. They left it right there, plain as day because, you know, _vegetable_. 

The chart was a goldmine of information.

For instance, his name, which he vaguely remembered once he saw it, had been Jeremiah M. Valeska. He didn't much _feel_ like a Jeremiah. He did not recall the M nor what it stood for. He was a 31-year-old male, thought to have been in good health before the trauma. He'd known he was male, _known_ it down to the core of his being, even before he was aware of the damn catheter stuck in his dick. (Oh, how he hated the damn catheter, but not enough to blow his cover. He could live with it, he supposed, even though it pinched most of the time and the orderlies weren't very gentle with its removal and insertion. He thought he might like to take a piss on his own someday, just to feel what it was like again. That was something to look forward to.) He'd been burned badly by chemicals in the same "event" that caused the impact trauma. He was made to wear cotton gloves to ensure he didn't scratch himself. This all made sense; he had a simmering heat under his skin that he couldn't account for. It didn't itch, exactly, but it was a constant presence like a low-grade fever, and when it rained he felt his neck prickle and his wrists sizzle like someone with a bum knee gets a sympathetic ache. The best part, though? He had apparently been committed here seven years ago by court order on the grounds that he was a danger to society because - wait for it! - he built and detonated bombs. Bombs! He always chuckled when he reread that bit and had to clamp a hand over his traitorous mouth. Wouldn't want anyone to know he could read or laugh or, you know, _think_. 

The daily routine here at "Arkham Asylum" (this name too was on his chart and again had a familiarity to it) was fairly straightforward. Mornings around 9 AM (according to the wall clock), probably after all the _conscious_ patients had been tended to, an orderly would come by to prop him up in his bed and hook up his feeding contraption. At 11 AM, they'd get around to disconnecting him from that (though it was long empty) and he would then receive some physical therapy to loosen and stretch his muscles. He didn't mind that part. It felt good to stretch. After the therapist left, he would secretly spend some time doing isometrics. Of course, he didn't remember that that was what the repetitive motions were called, but nevertheless, he'd press his palms together and tense and flex his biceps and forearms and thighs and calves bit by bit to try and regain some muscle tone and strength. A few times when he felt brave, he'd move to the edge of the mattress and attempt to stand while holding on to the metal bed frame. But he didn't dare try taking steps. No, not yet. He could sense he didn't have the necessary balance or motor skills. The last thing he wanted was to end up in a heap on the floor at someone's mercy. At half past 2 PM, someone would come by and lift his motionless body out of bed and haul his dead weight into the wheelchair, strap his arms down (he couldn't figure out why - did they think he was going to steal someone's coloring book?), settle a blanket over his lap for warmth, and roll him out to the "day room." It was here that he was able to observe others in his environment. There was a lot to observe: inmates and orderlies and security guards, too. Usually, no one paid him any mind. At 5 PM, many of the more cognizant inmates were corralled so they could be served dinner downstairs and he'd have some time to watch the news. (Well, he would stare vaguely _toward_ the television so it didn't look like he was watching the news.) At 7 PM, he was wheeled back to his room, given his remaining meds and fluids and unceremoniously wrestled back into his bed for the night. During the night someone rolled him over, but he was always asleep when that happened. He only knew because he woke up facing the other way. 

According to his chart, he had been observed at some point to sleep a solid 10 hours from 9 PM to 7 AM. Seemed like a lot of hours to him. Now that he could decide for himself, he lay awake long after "lights out," at least until the clock ticked over to the new day at midnight. He usually woke automatically at 6 AM now regardless of when he fell asleep. No one noticed because it wasn't part of the routine for them to check. This left him plenty of time to ruminate on the previous day's events and any new information gleaned.

He also spent this time digging around his mind, rummaging through the fragments to try and uncover things about his life _before_.

There were lots of things in his mind, one idea forming before being crowding out by the next. It was a little chaotic, but he had plenty of time to try and sort it all out - like maths and sciences that he couldn't quite make sense of; bits and pieces of equations that he tried to grab hold of but always skittered away before they could be assembled into logical forms. Lines and angles and shapes formed _structures,_ he just couldn't see the end result. Strangely specific things, too, came to him unbidden when he thought too hard, but these were fuzzy as if covered in gossamer. Things like snakes and bottle tosses and elephants on parade. These fuzzy images were tinged with a certain degree of desperation. Then, finally, a pale-skinned redheaded boy came to mind. He wondered if this was himself, though he hadn't seen a mirror during his time awake. Something about these images was offputting. Sometimes the images of the boy came tangled up with fear or resentment - sometimes even with what felt like _hatred_. That didn't seem right, so he dismissed it. 

In time, he finally pinned down something a little more solid, perhaps more recent. A gray, cavernous place with cement walls, not unlike the asylum - but only one level and without windows. A similar redheaded boy (though the hair was darker and there were fewer freckles) now grown up. A pretty blonde girl that moved very quietly and did what she was told. The fragmented mathematical equations were back, scribbled all over blackboards and blue paper. A blue light. Blue eyes. A beautiful dark-haired boy that looked at him like he hung the moon.

This last memory made him very happy. He remembered that he loved the boy and the boy loved him back. He _knew_ that. If he had any chance of getting out of this place, it would somehow be connected to the boy. It was the one true thing he could hold onto.

He hadn't any visitors since his awakening, but he hoped the boy (now a man) was still out there and hadn't forgotten him. He didn't like the idea of being forgotten.

No, he didn't like that idea at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

_(June)_

"Master Bruce, I've not heard a thing. I wish I had more uplifting news for you."

Bruce exhaled loudly on the line, frustrated. "Well, keep sending the checks. At least I can rest easy knowing the facility isn't in danger of closing anytime soon as long as they're getting my money. Are we moving ahead with breaking ground on the new Wayne Tower?"

Alfred took a sip of his tea. "Yes, yes. Still as scheduled. I'd hoped you could be there for it."

"No, I...I'm not quite ready to come back to Gotham. Please send my good wishes to everyone."

"Don't tell me you'll not be back until the Tower opens, Bruce. That's might be near to three years away yet."

Bruce Wayne chuckled, a deep, rich sound that warmed Alfred's heart. His boy was a man, truly.

"I miss you too, Al. Talk soon."

***

Based on the chyron ticker at the bottom of the TV screen, it was June. June 14th, to be precise. The figure sat in a wheelchair per usual but sans blanket as the weather was nice and a warm breeze flitted in through the barred windows. The “day room” was blissfully quiet and barely inhabited. The news anchor (the station seemed to always be tuned in to GNN regardless of the time of day; it got tiresome) chirped excitedly about a breaking-ground ceremony in midtown Gotham. A new Wayne Tower was to be built; expected to take some two and a half years to be raised, bigger and better than the previous Wayne headquarters which had been destroyed in a bombing during the Gotham City Crisis.

The figure known as Jeremiah Valeska twitched imperceptively. 

_Wayne Tower._

Numbers and figures flew through his mending mind while he tried to focus on the screen. Blueprints, photos, computers, a drafting table, a compass, plans, so many plans, a pat on the back from a well-dressed man. Plaques honoring his name, no, a pseudonym, were placed in prominent places: the lobby and also on the top floor, the crowning glory. A shining glass and glittering metal behemoth rising up to the sky and all due to a preternaturally smart teenage engineer. _Genius_ engineer.

It was like paramedics putting the paddles to his chest and jumpstarting his heart. Finally, he could take hold of something tangible; a breakthrough to his former life.

_I built a Wayne building._

He paid attention, had to pay attention. This was _important_. This Wayne building was _destroyed_ during the Gotham City Crisis. What on earth was the Gotham City Crisis? His medical chart had said his crime was building bombs, and he believed that because one had to be smart to build bombs. But he found it impossible that he'd have bombed his own skyscraper. His ego would simply have not permitted it. No, someone _else_ destroyed his building. Shame, that. It made him feel a little testy.

But no matter. The news anchor was going on again. She was gushing like a teenager. She added commentary about how nice it would be if Gotham's Prodigal Son, Bruce Wayne, were to come back. The young and oh-so-handsome Mr. Wayne had left town shortly after the Gotham City Crisis post-Reunification and was not in attendance for the Wayne Tower breaking-ground ceremony; instead, his close friend and confidante Alfred Pennyworth was on hand to put the shovel in the ground.

_Wayne Tower._

_Bruce Wayne._

He smiled, a small upturned quirk at the corners of his mangled, scarred lips. 

No one noticed. 

( _July)_

So many hours alone in his room. It was enough to drive a man mad, but not him. No, he had lived underground in a _maze_ of his own creation. He liked being alone. When he was alone, he could hatch the best plans.

Like a newborn deer on shaky, gangly legs, he took his first shuffling steps from the bed to the wheelchair and back. The first night he tried it, the soles of his feet ached from lack of contact with anything but cloth for years. The second time, he was a little cocky and almost slipped. Thereafter he was much more careful, slow, deliberate. Some nights he made the trek from the bed to the wheelchair and back repeatedly, forcing himself to go just a little longer, just a little further. Someday he'd walk out of this place. 

Something else he did when he was alone was to try and remember what he'd looked like. His brow would crease just a little as he imagined his face. There had been no photo in his medical chart, but he was certain there were pictures in his file - wherever that was kept. He had no illusions that he was even passably attractive. Enough orderlies had commented under their breath what a fright he was. The concept was humorous at first, being scary looking. But his ego started to bruise, the more aware he became. He distinctly remembered being pleased with his looks during the time he knew the pretty blonde girl and beautiful dark-haired boy. 

Curiosity got the best of him. There was no mirror, but there was a small window on his door. The glass was hatched with metal wire to prevent breakage, even though only a large rat could escape from something that small. Maybe the wire was to ensure the glass couldn't become a weapon. When his gait was steady enough, he decided to walk across the short distance to the door. At this hour, it was dark but for some emergency lights in the hall. It might just be enough to give him a reflection in the glass.

Dark, bleary, rheumy-looking eyes gazed back at him; vacant and soulless. He realized he was giving his "blank" pretend-vegetative look, so he focused. A crisp intelligence came back this time, but the eyes were still dark and almost _old_. He didn't remember having eyes that dark. He thought he'd had hazel eyes, eyes that leaned toward bottle green. Yet, in moments when he remembered the pretty blonde girl and ~~beautiful dark-haired boy~~ _Bruce Wayne_ he had flashes of irises so pale they were ghostly. During those flashes, he also thought he recalled lips of a deep ruby color ( _lipstick?_ ) and a cool, icy stare that almost melted into his complexion. It was confusing to have so many conflicting memories of his look.

But now, whatever complexion he'd had was destroyed by a patchwork quilt of scars and ripples. It was easy to see the landscape of his skin in the glass reflection, even with the wire crisscrossing his view. The texture was positively hideous. He pondered it, feeling annoyed. Chemical burns, of the severity he apparently withstood, couldn't have healed properly just exposed to open air. Sensibly, a few places on his torso that had scars were likely where they'd taken skin grafts and sewn his face back together. But couldn't they have taken a little care to make him look decent? He knew and accepted what his hands and wrists looked like, but even those fizzling wrists didn't have the kind of scar tissue visible in this small square of glass. (His hands weren't burned per se; the damage sustained there was apparently from leather gloves being fused to his skin - some of the leather still remained, a faint purple-gray on the sides of a finger or the flat of a palm.)

His hair, though, that was another story. The reflection showed some longish wisps of an indeterminant color. He would have sworn his hair had been auburn, and then again, not. When he remembered the icy eyes and ruby lips, he saw dark, dark hair. Nice hair. Wavy hair that he tamed in place with gel. Yes. He'd had very nice hair. Why hadn't his hair grown back? Had his hair follicles been destroyed? Must have been, as he realized he had not been shaved by any of the orderlies during the time he was awake. He blinked a few times and saw that he had no eyelashes or brows.

He refused to think himself a monster. No, he'd had a horrible accident, one that he'd only started to remember in short bursts. _(Falling. Green, green, green.)_ It was not his fault that he looked like this. He could use it to his advantage, he supposed. It might make people careless in front of him, thinking that not only was he vacant and mindless, but unaware of his effect on others. Maybe he could frighten people into doing his will. (Somehow, he thinks he'd already done exactly that in his _before_ life without looking scary at all.) When he got out of here (he no longer thought of it as _if_ ) maybe a little makeup could make him presentable, smooth away some of the scars.

He tried to speak, but his voice was just a croak of vowels after so long in disuse. Baring his teeth in the window, he saw they were straight and even and quite nice. He tried to smile, but it seemed to be a mockery of the real thing. The scars on his cheeks (and his ruined lips) prevented a true smile. Perhaps he could work at that, get the facial muscles to stretch a little bit. He liked his teeth and remembered having a very white, very wide grin. He must have grinned a lot to remember that. Maybe he was funny. That wouldn't surprise him, everything seemed funny these days.

There were things that weren't very funny, though, and he had trouble explaining them to himself. Why didn't Bruce Wayne live in Gotham City anymore? Why did Bruce Wayne's leaving Gotham City seem to match up with the long sleep he'd had for the past seven-plus years? The word Reunification sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. What did any of it have to do with his accident, if at all?

He had loved Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne had loved him. He was certain of it. 

Had Bruce Wayne ever come to see him? If not, why not?

_How's it going to be_  
_When you don’t know me_  
_How's it going to be_  
_When you're sure I'm not there_

He turned from the door and made his way back to bed so he could practice sounding out words. His head was full of words and he needed to be able to communicate them at some point.

_(August)_

It was time. Nine months had passed since regaining his consciousness and two months since he'd heard about Wayne Tower's construction. He remembered many things, misremembered others, forgot much more. But if there was one thing he knew, he knew he couldn't get any more information _on his own_. He couldn't begin to make any real plans to get his life back while _alone_. He needed an ally. He needed _help._

_No man is an island._

He had watched and listened and absorbed. He parsed the data like so many tables of digits; like a mainframe computer, running the programs, narrowing the choices. It couldn't be anyone too smart. It couldn't be anyone too connected. It couldn't be anyone who worked for the asylum, not at first, no. It needed to be a patsy; a gullible, easily influenced, mostly frightened inmate that would simply _not be believed_ if he tried to rat him out. Someone with enough brains to make phone calls or pass notes. A lackey.

He chose Lucas Haversham. Lucas Haversham was a low-level thief that had briefly worked for Penguin (now _there_ was a name he remembered) as a numbers runner. He was in Arkham for a short stint getting treated for bouts of fake anxiety because he'd pled guilty to grand larceny to avoid going to Blackgate. That's just how the system worked.

Oh, and Lucas had a half-sister who, as luck would have it, had been a follower of the Church of Jeremiah Valeska. Lucas was a little in awe of Jeremiah Valeska. Jeremiah Valeska was a criminal mastermind, a legend. If only Jeremiah Valeska were conscious, Lucas might sit at his feet and be his disciple.

How convenient that Lucas Haversham was the only other inmate in the "day room" for a solid 30 minutes that afternoon.

_It's your lucky day, Lucas._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

“Could use a friend.”

The voice was merely a rasp above a whisper. Lucas Haversham noticed it. He couldn’t have been hearing things. He wasn’t here because he was crazy; it was just a lousy plea deal.

Lucas looked around from his place on the nailed-down community bench where he’d been flipping through an old magazine. There wasn’t anyone else around. Well, spooky Jeremiah Valeska was in his wheelchair by the wall, but it wasn’t like he was going to be chatting up anyone. How weird.

“Oh, Luuuucassss...”

A ruined voice tried to sing-song out the words, making them even more ominous sounding. Lucas turned his head and froze. Jeremiah was looking right at him and wiggling his white-gloved fingers to get his attention.

”Holy shit, you...your...”

”Now, now. Tch. Don’t ruin it.”

”Should I go get a doctor?”

”Oh, no. Please, don't. Come. Hurts my throat to raise my voice.”

Lucas had already started toward the wheelchair-bound man but moved more quickly at Jeremiah’s request.

”You-you can talk.”

The man in the chair struggled mightily not to roll his eyes. 

“Yes. And it’s our secret. Do you like secrets, Lucas?”

Lucas nodded and glanced past Jeremiah’s shoulder at the doorway.

”Good. Do keep an eye out - wouldn’t want anyone to hear.”

”Alright. But why is it a secret? Don’t you want them to know you’re not, uh...” Lucas trailed off, not wanting to insult his new friend.

”Braindead? It’s okay to say it. No, they can't know I've woken up. You know what they’ll do?" Lucas stared wide-eyed at the miracle in front of him. "They’ll load me up with drugs and put me in a padded cell. I’d much rather stay out here. But I’d like a...friend. Would you be my friend, Lucas?”

Lucas was astonished. Jeremiah wanted him - _him!_ \- to be his friend.

”But, you’re famous, Mr. Vales...”

”Shhh, don’t say my name aloud. It’s bad luck.”

”Oh. What can I call you?”

_Oh, for crying out loud._

The man's hands itched to brandish a switchblade. Hmm. Another memory dropped into the slot. 

”If you must call me something, how about J? Hmm, yes, that will suit.”

”Jay? Huh. Like Jay Leno. Cool. I’ve heard so much about you. Can you teach me how to make explosives?”

”Sure.”

The words _Italian merengue_ drifted across his consciousness. They didn't make sense, but he'd sort that out later.

”You could be my mentor!" Lucas thought this was going to be his lucky break.

"Yes. Okay. But I might also need your help - get in touch with a friend or two on the outside. You know, ask some questions for me."

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, sure. I can do something like that. 'Sides, I'm getting out in a few months."

"How lovely for you. I’ll make sure you get rewarded, little something to get you back on your feet.”

”Okay! Yeah, so. What do I have to do?”

The man in the wheelchair shook his head. His lips tugged a little in an attempt to smile, but it only produced a grimace.

"Right now, do nothing."

"But, you..."

"Ah, ah. Pay close attention to this next bit. Carry on as usual. Do not speak to me unless I speak to you first. Remember, it's our secret. No one can know that I’m awake right now. Do you understand? I’d hate for something to ruin our friendship if the secret gets out.”

Lucas nodded solemnly. 

“Say it."

"Uh. Don't do anything. No talking 'til you talk to me. Keep the secret."

"Can you?"

"What? Oh! Keep the secret. Yeah, course. I've worked on secret jobs before."

"Promise."

"Uh, pinky swear, you mean?"

The man inclined his head indulgently. He couldn't lift his wrist since it was strapped to the armrest, but he slid his hand over so his ring and pinky fingers were just off the edge. Lucas leaned in and wrapped a grubby pinky around Jeremiah's white cotton one and squeezed.

"There. That's done, then. Go on. I'm sure we will have an opportunity to chat soon.” 

J winked at the man (which, given the context and his scarred face, should have been very unnerving to Lucas) and then schooled his expression back into the vacant stare Lucas was more accustomed to.

”Hey. That’s really good. You're a natural.”

”Shhh. We’ll talk soon.”

A door opened and someone yelled, “Fuck this noise! Why can’t we watch a goddamn movie in this shit hole?”

Lucas looked up at the clock. It was time for him to line up for 6 PM mess hall. He looked over at the seeming braindead Jeremiah Valeska. Then he smiled to himself.

Lucas had a secret, and it was a _big_ one.

***

It would be exactly two weeks before Lucas and "Jay" spoke. That's how long it was before they were alone again. But by then, the man in the wheelchair had sorted out what he wanted from his new friend. 

The job seemed simple. Get in touch with J's associate. Her street name was Mummer. With any luck, she'd kept her same mobile phone number, but if not, J had some ideas where she might be. She wouldn't have gone far. Don't use his name - _never_ say his name. To Mummer, just refer to him as "Boss." The message for her was short and sweet.

Boss says _Come to me._

***

_A silence I can't ignore_  
_Like the hammock by the_  
_Doorway we spent time in, swings empty_  
_Don't see lightning like last fall_  
_When it was always about to hit me_

It took longer than he'd hoped. Three months, give or take a week. But he was right when he remembered being a very patient man. 

_Patience was a virtue._

Lucas finally brought him evidence of a response; proof of life, one supposed, provided by his half-sister who came to visit. Instead of a nail file in a cake, she passed Lucas a pristine white envelope. The guard that examined care packages glanced at it and snorted. Later in the week, Lucas was able to show the contents of the envelope to his friend "Jay," who nodded and said, "destroy it." Lucas did, immediately. Tore it up in teeny pieces and ate it on the spot.

It had been a playing card, the Queen of Hearts, adorned with a red lipstick kiss. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the new tag if you have any triggers related to thoughts of suicide. If you're struggling, reach out. There is help and there is hope. Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
> 
> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

_(8 years ago)_

in the wake of Jeremiah Valeska’s date with destiny at Ace Chemicals, the henchwoman known on the streets of Gotham as Mummer was _lost_.

Mummer, whose more common alias was Ecco and whose given name was long buried in the annals of a previous life, had arrived at the chemical plant too late to be of any use to her Lord and Master. She dug her heels into the wet pavement and watched from the alley across the way. Jeremiah was wheeled out on a stretcher, Bruce Wayne moping alongside with a shock blanket draped over his shoulders. She barely had time to see her Love before both men disappeared into the back of the waiting ambulance. 

He looked like He was dead, Ecco thought, struggling to hold in a tidal wave of tears. She only recognized her Beloved from the purple coat He wore, and even that was in tatters.

It was His face. Oh heavens, what happened to His beautiful, beatific face? It was blistered and bloody and melting. _Melting_. His hair was plastered down in places, missing in other spots. He had been, in a word, _destroyed_. What had happened? He’d cheated death over and over, could He survive whatever this was?

Oh, she realized with dawning horror, He must have been sprayed with or hit by or _dunked_ in the most recent chemical compound - the one they hadn’t even tested yet! The one that was supposed to corrode you from the outside; deform you but not kill you. No, this recipe was meant to be used for torturing and maiming, not killing. It had yet to be perfected. She and Jeremiah had had a laugh about trying it out on that little Kitty-Cat bitch or even perfect looking Miss Barbara Queen, er, _Kean_ , or whatever her name was these days. This latest potion in their arsenal was designed to _ruin_ the victim completely and force them to live with the horrific results.

How...It was Bruce Wayne’s fault, no doubt. It was always that goddamn Bruce fucking Wayne! Did he push Jeremiah into one of the vats? How could he! Ecco had a mind to stalk over there, throw open the ambulance doors, and shoot that useless pretty boy right in his pretty face!

But, no, she held back. Maybe that’s not what happened. In any case, Boss wouldn’t approve. He wouldn’t like that at all. He loved Bruce Wayne; was _in love_ with him in her opinion. Jeremiah practically lived and breathed for the little rich orphan boy. She still didn’t understand it. What did that puny kid have that she didn’t? Well, aside from the money. And maybe it was the opposite equipment. That was never confirmed.

”I’m sorry, dear one,” Boss had said to her on _every_ occasion she offered her body for His use. “You know I’m just not wired that way.” Yes, yes. She’d heard it all before. 

She couldn’t even trick Him when He’d been drunk - whether on wine or success.

Not too long ago, they had danced in the abandoned subway where the tunnel to Wayne Manor had been dug. He’d taken her hand and swayed with her; held her body near and even dipped her once. It was such a thrill...but He didn’t kiss her and His body never betrayed Him. She pressed up against Him and tried to arouse Him. It didn’t work. He was not to be moved, physically, _sexually_ by her proximity or blatant overtures. He didn’t even acknowledge the effort.

As far as she was aware, Jeremiah was celibate, like a priest or the Prophet He had become to so many seekers. Didn’t sully His temple with pleasures of the flesh. He had too many plans, too many ideas to carry out. He wouldn’t be distracted by such trivialities. And _boy howdy_ did she try to distract Him, from way, way back during their business arrangement when she was proxy to Xander Wilde. He was handsome back then, too, but hadn’t yet come into His own; hadn’t yet achieved Enlightenment.

Was He a virgin, even now? She didn’t think so. He had always been far too worldly a man, even as a teenage engineer; mature beyond His years. He was very private, some things He just didn’t discuss - even with His proxy, His right hand person.

She allowed that He could be asexual, but only insofar that this label could explain His lack of interest in _her_ specifically rather than open her eyes to Jeremiah’s complex identity.

She begrudged Bruce Wayne for the emotions he stirred in Boss. Could one be in love and not want more from the object of one’s affections? It was, like many things about the Prophet, a mystery.

She slumped against the wall and exhaled. She shrugged off the recurring and well-known feeling of jealousy. That kind of thinking was small-minded and not helpful to the Cause. The wheels began turning in her brainwashed head. The first order of business was to scuttle over to Gotham General and monitor His condition. The chemicals weren’t meant to kill, so it only made sense that He, her Almighty One, would find a way to survive. He had to. Then she’d go back to home base and rally the seekers. There was still much to do in Jeremiah’s Name. She wouldn’t let Him down, not as long as she still drew breath.

***

It was many weeks later that Ecco finally permitted herself to fall apart, felt as near to giving up, felt as near to contemplating suicide as she’d ever come in her 26 years.

It was some time after Gotham City had been restored to order; after Reunification with the U.S. mainland had been successfully negotiated.

It was just an average, quiet day. Citizens of Gotham were out and about, walking their dogs, not frightened of the army or any random acts of violence. 

It was the day Jeremiah Valeska was formally pronounced to be in a “persistent and indefinite state of coma” and transferred to live out his remaining days in one of the psych wards at Arkham Asylum.

It was, in fact, a cloudy Tuesday. 

GNN forecasted rain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

It might be said that without Jeremiah Valeska to keep her occupied, Ecco shriveled up and died.

It _might_ be said, but it would be a lie.

You see, Ecco had a bullet in her head to remind her that as long as you were alive, there was hope.

_Give ‘er a shake, huh?_

Ecco believed that Jeremiah had much more to do; much more to create. He was too tenacious, too _brilliant_ , to let a little ol’ thing like a coma get in the way of His plans.

Having made it through the dark, early days of Jeremiah’s interrupted life, Ecco got her own plans underway. First, she had to get out of Gotham. She was a fugitive from the law, after all.

She moved to Metropolis, changed her name to Helen Weals (she knew Jeremiah would have appreciated the clever play on words) and took a rather dull job as a secretary. With the tidy stipend He had provided her during her times as His proxy and partner in crime, she went back to graduate school.

If Jeremiah never recovered, she intended to one day get close enough to be His caretaker; give back to Him for all that He had given her. She had devoted her life to Him and doing His will remained her purpose.

In the years following those heady days of running the Church of Jeremiah Valeska, “Helen Weals” earned her Masters Degree in Nursing. She bade farewell to secretarial work and spent time proving her mettle in variety of health care settings. That’s not to say she liked it. She _loathed_ it. Ecco hated the whiney patients, the sickly stench, the numerous body fluids. But for every bit of mucous she suctioned, every puddle she sopped up, every unconscious body she sponged down, she drew closer to the day she would be qualified to care for Him.

During these years, Ecco kept minimally in touch with a select few of Jeremiah's Believers; they, like their faithful Mummer, felt their purpose was put on hold while their Lord and Master slept. They were ordinary citizens of Gotham City, who worked or attended university or raised a family. They went about living their lives, but always, _always_ with one ear to the ground. Hopeful. 

And one day, after a brutally long night shift at the Metropolis Center for Aging and Disabled Adults, Ecco was surprised to see a familiar face lurking in the car park. Her first thought was to run, thinking her former associate had perhaps led the GCPD to her workplace. But the ecstatic smile on the Believer's face could only mean one thing.

_Achilles had returned from the Elysian Plains._

It was time for Ecco to go home.

***

He spent the next few weeks making more concrete plans in his head. 

An idea had taken seed as he whiled away the hours in his wheelchair after getting the “message received” playing card from Ecco. It naturally involved an elaborate scheme utilizing explosives. Just the thought of a well crafted incendiary device set his heart to beating quicker. And he knew just the place to host the project. It was so obvious and yet would be so very unexpected.

_Wayne Tower._

First of all, how dare anyone attempt to redesign that flawless structure! Surely, Wayne Enterprises had the original blueprints; why not rebuild his masterpiece in the same way he’d fashioned it when he was a 16 year old prodigy? It was an _insult_ to start anew.

Secondly, what better way to capture his _darling_ Bruce’s attention than to destroy the grandiose, brand spanking new, highly anticipated, noisily publicized and obscenely expensive skyscraper that was to bear the ancestral Wayne name. It was positively delicious!

With Ecco out there somewhere working her way back to him, the necessary resources would soon become available. Resources meant he could pay loyal associates handsomely. You could pay someone to do _anything_ , he’d found. He was giddy to have recently recalled that when cash (or violence) could not persuade, a little hypnotism could. There had been a curly-headed man whose criminal alias was Hatter-something, (or something-Hatter; he wore a ridiculous hat). He hoped this Hatter character was still in the market for freelancing. That talent could come in handy again, and was _so_ much fun to watch.

While he hadn’t yet remembered how he came into his money, he knew he had plenty of it and had a suspicion that he’d opportunistically stashed cash (and weapons) in buried lockboxes throughout Gotham. He hoped Ecco would know the locations if he did such a clever thing.

Jeremiah did not yet remember that he was actually wealthy beyond measure, and had been long before his first blueprint became a building. He had not been, as his twin had publicly accused, _adopted_ by rich folks. Jeremiah was never adopted. While attending St. Ignatius, philanthropists enamored of the genius IQ and scholarly accomplishments of a shy redheaded “orphan” named Xander Wilde provided a substantial trust fund and a generous allowance for him well before the teen had been approached to design a new Wayne building.

What Jeremiah couldn’t know (and never would due to legal stipulations preserving their anonymity), was that Xander Wilde’s benefactors - from shortly after his acceptance into St. Ignatius and until their untimely deaths - had been Thomas and Martha Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has always been my headcanon since "That's Entertainment" that Xander's benefactors were the Waynes. Fight me. 
> 
> That would have made Bruce, ironically, a brother of sorts to Jeremiah all along. *cries*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

"Helen Weals" had an impeccable record as a Clinical Nurse Specialist (CNS) for the four years she'd been practicing full-time. Her nursing care focused on patients with DOC - disorders of consciousness. Employed in settings of Assisted Living or Hospice, Nurse Weals displayed a rare dedication to her specialty and had several enthusiastic reference letters about her caregiving ethic with totally dependent, brain-injured patients. It was these reference letters that helped seal the deal when she applied for an open nursing position at Arkham Asylum. Initially, Warden Simmons was only looking for a replacement for a Nurse Practitioner that resigned. But Arkham had recently added two convicts to their inmate population that had been severely injured in Blackgate resulting in coma. Previously, there had only been one brain-injured patient in residence - the infamous Jeremiah Valeska - who required very little attention. With the added burden of two more similarly injured inmates, it made sense to pick up a staff member with some actual experience in managing consciousness disorders.

Nurse Weals was hired two days after her impressive interview. She'd have probably gotten the job anyway; there weren't many voluntary applicants for the dismal psychiatric facility. As Nurse Weals had little experience with mentally ill patients she was directed to deal solely with the three brain-injured inmates, all of whom were on the same floor (the sixth) and only one of whom had progressed to wheelchair use (Valeska). 

Coincidentally, a "rehabilitated" felon by the name of Lucas Haversham had been released just one week before Helen Weals' first day at Arkham. When Lucas got out, his half-sister picked him up in a very expensive automobile and proudly handed him a fat envelope of cash to help get him back on his feet.

Lucas had also learned a thing or two about building bombs during his stay in Arkham. Bomb-making, after all, was a highly prized skill set in Gotham.

***

Their reunion was not exactly the stuff dreams are made of. 

Nurse Weals was brought into Jeremiah Valeska's room in time to take his morning vital signs, empty his urine drainage bag, and reintroduce his intravenous feeding tube and required fluids.

Arkham Asylum was not known for its stellar patient care, but even the most junior intern would escort their replacement to the patient's room and formally announce them to the patient - whether or not the patient was conscious. 

Terry Willis was the nurse on the sixth floor that morning. She unlocked the door and flicked on the light at exactly 9 AM. 

Jeremiah Valeska, well aware of what was expected of him every moment of every day, lay on his side where he'd been manually rolled during the night and did not blink.

Ecco could hardly contain her gasp of excitement to finally see her Beloved. Nurse Willis misunderstood the response and attempted to comfort the pretty blonde.

"Oh, I know. He's a fright," she muttered. "Thank God he's brain-dead, really. Could you imagine him having to go through life scaring people like that?"

Ecco said nothing but she felt an indignant fury begin to coil in her blood. This Willis person needed to be careful or she might have an _accident_ very soon.

"Mr. Valeska," Willis shouted in the shrill voice one reserves for yelling into an abandoned house to scare away ghosts or raccoons. "Time for your morning ablations! I've got a new colleague taking over today, Nurse Weals! She's very lovely!”

_I’m not deaf, you shrew. Good help is so hard to find._

"I'll take it from here, Terry," Ecco whispered. In a louder but very nurturing voice, she said, "I'm Helen Weals, Mistah Valeska. I'm gonna check ya vitals and then we'll get to ya breakfast." 

Willis watched to ensure this Nurse Weals knew what she was doing. She hoped so. Willis hated having to deal with Valeska. Not only did he look like something out of a horror movie, but he was so uncannily still that she felt like the walls were closing in on her whenever she worked with him. She knew it wasn't his fault, poor dear, he couldn't help that he was a vegetable. But his stare was so eerie, sometimes she thought she saw intelligence and wondered if he knew what was going on. Sad, really, being trapped like that.

Ecco continued speaking in a calming tone as she worked. "I'm gonna sit ya up now, so don't be alarmed. I'll just..."

"Do you need help?" Willis asked from the doorway.

"Nah, I think I can manage," Ecco said pleasantly as she wrangled her patient into a sitting position. "...set ya right here." Lord knows she'd picked up enough dead weight bodies, both as a nurse and as a trained assassin. "There we go, Mistah Valeska," she said, looking him in the eye.

He knew there was still someone else in the room with them so he kept his gaze suitably blank. But he'd recognize that voice anywhere; knew from the moment she first spoke that it was her and that he was that much closer to freedom now.

Ecco took his blood pressure and pulse and then glanced at the drainage bag attached to his calf. She took hold of the tube and followed it up, not because she wanted a peek at Jeremiah's genitals (she'd treated his wounds enough times that she'd already seen London _and_ France) but because she had a feeling this was the reason his chart indicated so many antibiotic treatments. "Nurse Willis, why does the patient have a urethral catheter?"

"Er, what do you mean? It's all we use at Arkham for patients that can't relieve themselves. It's easy and..."

"Easy, yeah. 'Course Foleys are easy. And _cheap_ too. But so, so uncomfortable for the patient."

"Well, but he doesn't feel anyth..."

"Nevertheless," Ecco cut in sternly, "I'll be sure to request that we use a suprapubic catheter on Mistah Valeska going forward. Inserting it through his abdomen will surely lead to less frequent UTI, doncha think?" Then she addressed the patient. "We'll take care o' that for ya, Mistah Valeska. Ease up the snagging on ya privates, yeah?"

Willis shrugged. It's not like she really cared.

"Alrighty then, let's empty this here bag and get to the main event." Reattaching the bag, she chirped, "Time for ya breakfast!"

"Alright, looks like you've got this under control. I'll...I'll be seeing you around. Um, have a nice day Mr. Valeska."

"Thanks, Terry. I'll catch ya later," Ecco said _sotto voce_. Slightly louder she said, "Okay the needle's gonna pinch a bit, but ya know all about that already. In 3-2-1, there we go." The door opened and closed and the key latched the door securely. "I'll just tape this down," she said as she did so, then hooked up the parenteral nutrition to the tube. "I know it's not like scrambled eggs and bacon but it'll set ya right. Great. Let's get this to flowin' and I'll stick around for a little while." She kept talking but started to soften her voice with the confidence that they were alone. "Looks like jus' the two of us now while ya enjoy ya breakfast, Boss."

"Hell on Wheels? Really?" Jeremiah murmured, a smirk trying to make its way onto his face. So what if it looked like a grimace. "Next, you'll be rollerblading through the hallways with a sledgehammer."

"Oh, Boss! Ya got the joke," she giggled. "Glad the ol' noodle is getting back into shape already!"

"Speaking of noodles," he rolled his eyes, "thanks for the assist on the catheter situation. I've had more infections in this place than a math professor has tangents."

"Ooh, good one! I got one for ya. Why did the engineering students leave class early? They were getting a little ANSI."

In spite of himself, he laughed, a dry hacking thing that more resembled a cough than anything else. But Ecco beamed anyway.

"Glad to see you, dear one," he said fondly, meeting her eager gaze with his own.

"Can't wait to hear all about yer plans, Boss. We'll have ya outta here in no time."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

Their time together was limited during the day. 

Ecco had very specific tasks to fulfill as Nurse Helen Weals. In addition to the morning rounds, she took on the muscle-stretching physical therapy sessions in the afternoons for her three patients. (Interns still did much of the patient bathing, but she put the fear of God in them making sure that they did right by her.) When she visited Jeremiah, they were virtually guaranteed to be alone until she'd wheeled him out to the "day room." At least one night a week she'd check on him after lights out. If anyone noticed, no one questioned it.

They had a lot to talk about when they were alone.

Of course, he had plenty to say when Ecco filled him in on the events that occurred between his accident and Reunification.

  * Bane and the government take-over _(*Snort* I'd have never allowed such nonsense in my city. No one blows up my city but me.)_
  * Nissa al Guhl _(Why is that name so familiar? Wait, she wanted to kill Bruce? Oh, no no. That will never do.)_
  * The birth of Barbara Gordon _(Barbara Kean, a mother? Jim. Jimmy. Jimbo. Any port in a storm. Hmmm, a baby Gordon could come in handy.)_



Jeremiah shared a little bit about his recovery process and a lot about his idea to reshape Gotham and get Bruce Wayne's attention at the same time.

All of his focus seemed to be on this new Wayne Tower being built. He was quite agitated and adamant about it.

"But Boss, why Wayne Tower specifically?"

Jeremiah sighed petulantly. "Don't you see? It's poetic justice! They...they...they're obliterating my name from the history books with this new building and I'm going to see that I'm forever tied to it. Can you imagine, rebuilding my skyscraper? So gauche."

Yes, she could see alright. She could see he didn't have all of his memories back. After that long sleep, he was bound to have forgotten lots of things; lots of his own life. She'd just have to fill him in.

"Boss, I gotta say. Yer a little off base on this."

"..."

He hated when she corrected him; _that_ he remembered quite clearly.

"Why whatever do you mean, _dear_?" She didn't see the dangerous glint in his eyes. They were too dark, too bleary. Not what she had been used to at all. She didn't move quickly enough.

"It was Wayne _Plaza_ ya built. That's still there, right as rain...aaack!"

His gloved hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. His late-night workouts in his room had paid off, and his reflexes were returning. It felt good to strike out when he knew he would be unchallenged.

"B-boss..." she gasped holding on to the metal headboard of his standard-issue bedframe.

"Are you contradicting me?" His voice was coming back bit by bit as well, suitably growly and menacing.

"Nuh-no! Not really?" He pushed her away and she staggered backward until she hit the wall. "Boss! Come on, ya wanted me to be straight with ya. I gotta tell ya if yer wrong, don't I?"

He stared her down.

"Ya built _Wayne Plaza_. Th-the new Wayne Tower is replacing Wayne _Enterprises_. Remember Wayne Enterprises? The maze bomb?"

Ecco cringed as he stood abruptly but he walked past her and sat in his wheelchair, pensive.

"Maze bomb," he finally murmured. "I have a lot of memories of mazes and bombs, but not _maze bomb_. What do you mean?"

She inhaled sharply, saved from his ferocious temper for the moment. (She remembered he so rarely ever lost his temper, but when he did - watch out. It was kind of hot, to be honest.)

"Ya had a plan, ya see. Bomb strategic targets all over Gotham so that when the buildings fell, they formed a maze. This was before the bridges, Boss."

He nodded absently at her reference to the bridges. He had a clear vision of the bridges blowing up, holding onto his bleeding shoulder while the others stood around dumbfounded. Such a proud moment. 

Seeing no resistance, she continued. "It was...it was Wayne Enterprises in the center of the blueprint; the tallest building in Gotham. Not as aesthetically pleasing as Wayne Plaza, mind ya, but taller and older. That one was going to trigger the rest of the collapses. Didn't happen according to plan, but it got destroyed during the fight with the Army later on. Point is, nobody messed with Wayne Plaza. Yer masterpiece is still there, still has Xander Wilde's name on the plaque."

"The plan's not as _meaningful_ now," he groused. "I wanted to take out my righteous indignation on Bruce for redesigning my skyscraper."

"But Boss," she added. "Maybe you can still be righteously indignant. Where's he been all this time, huh? That seems good enough to me for a bombing."

He sniffed. "I'm sure he had a good reason for leaving town."

"Maybe. But for 8 years?" she quipped, before realizing that would put her back on thin ice.

"I'll worry about Bruce Wayne. You just worry about getting what we need to get the job done."

"Okay, Boss."

And after a few minutes of quiet, the other penny dropped.

"You still haven't said anything."

"'Bout what, Boss?"

"My...appearance."

"Why would I?" she cocked her head to the side, genuinely wondering.

"Well, I know I'm not...what you remember." 

She pulled his wheelchair closer to the bed and sat down on the mattress so they were eye to eye. "Boss, what happened to ya wasn't yer fault. Why would I say anything about it? Yer still the same to me, no matter what. The same man inside, where it counts. I didn't stop lo-caring aboutcha just because ya look different."

"Thank you, Ecco. But I more than _look different_. I'm unrecognizable."

She waved a hand. "Yer still a genius. I think that's the most important thing, don't you?"

He pondered that. "I do feel like some of my intellect has returned to its former state. It's been slow going, but I've remembered a lot about engineering and especially about creating incendiary devices. It's more the personal events that I have trouble recollecting. For example, I don't remember much before my years at boarding school, and some memories during my time in the bunker are unclear as well."

"I'd say a lot of what happened before school probably...didn't make much of an impression on ya. Maybe it wasn't important," she hedged. It seemed like he didn't remember he had been a twin. Could be his psyche was blocking certain painful memories. Just as well, in her opinion. That's just a whole other can of worms that didn't need opening right now.

"Hmm. Perhaps. Did...did I have red hair once?"

She chuckled. "Yup, ya sure did. Red hair and freckles and glasses. Kinda nerdy in a cute way. But ya changed yer look after awhile. Got all dapper, with fancy suits and dark hair. Concealing all kinds of switchblades and pistols up yer sleeves and in yer pockets. Quite the imposing underworld figure. That's the way Gotham remembers ya, Boss. Stylish. Expensive taste. Impeccably dressed."

He nodded. "I like purple, don't I?"

"Oh yeah, ya do. Purple and green and black and red. Good colors, bold colors. Made an impression, ya did. We'll get ya back there. I'll make sure you have custom made suits when we get outta here - and a fine purple overcoat so they'll see ya comin'. Jeremiah Valeska, back in town."

"About that," he said, hesitantly. "I don't feel much like a Jeremiah. Too biblical sounding."

"What do ya want to be called? It's easy to change yer name, Boss. People do it all the time."

"Yes, I know, _Helen_ ," he smirked. "I'm not sure. I want to keep the J sound, I think. I just think my name is too long, seven syllables between my first and last. I need something catchy, something memorable. For now, just keep calling me Boss or maybe Mr. J when we're alone. I'll think of something eventually."

"Sounds good. If I think of something, I'll run it past ya. Hey, speaking of names, why did they call it PMS? Because Mad Cow Disease was taken!"

He stared at her. "That's not a good joke."

"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm a little rusty I guess."

"Hmm. I stepped on a rusty lego the other day. I'm afraid I might have contracted Tetris."

"Tetris!" Ecco crowed. "Instead o’ tetanus - that’s fantastic, Boss! Well, except for the bit about stepping on a _rusty_ lego. Why would there be a rusty lego in a psych ward? I mean unless they have legos for the patients to play with. Plus, legos are plastic. I haven't seen an..."

"Ecco! It's a joke."

"Right, right. Sorry. Hehe."

He rolled his eyes like a drama queen, just the way he used to. She smiled, delighted.


	10. Chapter 10

_(T-minus 1 year)_

So much work to do. Boss (or “J” as he preferred to be called) was even more demanding since he couldn't do any of the work himself, and Ecco was running herself ragged during her time away from Arkham. She'd been able to pull together a small band of followers that were only too happy to do the Prophet's bidding. She had scouts keeping an eye on the progress of Wayne Tower (someone actually got hold of an early set of blueprints to get an idea of the best places to put a bomb), planting bugs in the trailers that served as onsite construction offices, and watching for any increased GCPD activities in the surrounding neighborhoods.

J was very pleased to hear that Wayne Manor had been rebuilt, in almost an exact replica of the one he badly damaged 9 years ago. He was not as happy to hear that Bruce Wayne had still not been back to Gotham. It rankled Ecco that J was still so fixated on Wayne; some days it seemed like he was angry at Wayne for "abandoning their relationship" and other days he would stare dreamily at the wall remembering his and Wayne's "unbreakable bond." It was enough to drive a gal bonkers! But...she knew J was far smarter than she was and if he said something was so, it must be true. Maybe there was something to this mysterious bond.

J, for his part, was getting more anxious. The building was due to be finished in just a few months and if he knew anything about Gotham it was that the city loved to celebrate its richest citizens and their achievements. There would be a big gala for the public unveiling of Wayne Tower and that would be the perfect time for J's own reveal. What a little surprise that would be for Bruce. There were a lot of moving parts to the plan and J hated having to rely solely on others; he would have liked to create and plant the explosives himself...but needs must. Ecco was his connection to the outside world and J had to trust that she would handle the details as she had done so many other things for him in the _before_ days.

At this point, J had a substantial amount of his memories back from the time that directly preceded his accident. With Ecco's help, he was able to piece together the period during which he built the generator, modified it for its new purpose as a bomb, and ensured Wayne Enterprises replicated it. He remembered blowing up the Clock Tower in front of Detective Harvey Bullock. _That_ was a great memory. He was a little fuzzy on his dealings with Jonathan Crane but remembered that he tried to have Bruce conquer his fears using Crane's fear toxin. He remembered Jim Gordon beating him in a jail cell shortly after Bruce's butler roughed him up in the Wayne library. He remembered shooting "the little bitch" - and that she did quite a number on his midsection with a very sharp knife months later. 

He did not remember the occasion at which he met Bruce Wayne. J remembered Bruce in his bunker, remembered that they had worked side by side on the generator for weeks and that all of it was possible because Bruce had provided him with a grant. But J remained unclear on _how_ they met. Ecco did not provide any clues beyond that he and Bruce met up to attend a public event with Jim Gordon - there was no way she was going to resurrect the memory of his twin brother.

That was one memory J would have to uncover on his own.

***

_(T-minus six months)_

And so the weeks and months ticked by. J drew diagrams and blueprints after he was returned to his room at night and Ecco retrieved them in the morning. She'd report back on progress later, and the cycle would continue. He'd revise and refine the diagrams. She'd relay the information to the handful of followers trusted to help her build simulations of the incendiary device and its gyroscopic timer, and she'd photograph the progress with her cell phone so J could review the wiring and advise where and how they should test miniature iterations of the explosives to make sure they had done everything to his exact specifications. Eventually, they would have to create the real deal and wire it to a significant amount of C4 - a version they wouldn't have the luxury of testing.

Ecco searched long and hard for the right marks at Arkham: those who earned very little and struggled to provide for their families. Men that might be persuaded to do just about anything for money. It was surprisingly easy to focus on a couple of guards that had once dreamt of being police but couldn't cut it. These men had little regard for the GCPD or "doing the right thing." The final guard she set her sights on had ties to one of the southside gangs. That could be useful, especially for procuring warehouse space to build the final bomb. Getting the C4 was a little harder. There wasn't exactly a clearcut market for it in the volume J required, and it needed to be a large quantity obtained in bulk - not piece by piece. Time was growing short. Ecco wasn't certain who handled explosives and weapon trafficking during Penguin’s time in Blackgate, so J simply told her to "knock off a government warehouse if you can't figure out a better way" which was a very simple, elegant solution. He was always so clever.

In the meanwhile, J had taken to watching Edward Nygma during his afternoons in the day room. He couldn't remember ever meeting Nygma in the _before_ time - Ecco confirmed this _not-memory_. (He enjoyed it greatly when he couldn't recall something and then was justified when it turned out the thing hadn't even happened. He'd taken to calling these _not-memories_.)

Nygma was an interesting character. He clearly had a genius-level intellect, but the man was plagued with insecurities and a need to prove himself that could serve as his undoing. Nygma also liked to yell in indignation as much as he liked to chuckle maniacally. Nevertheless, he appeared to be a genius. J appreciated someone with a mind as challenging as his own; it was one of the things he admired most about Bruce Wayne, after all. But Nygma might be more easily manipulated than Bruce ever was. He'd have Ecco find out more about this Nygma character - aside from the fact that he'd taken to stabbing J in the leg with any manner of sharp objects for entertainment.

A little digging was all it took for Ecco to find out about Nygma's history - and his greatest weaknesses: his overblown ego, his persona as The Riddler (capital _The_ ) and his friendship with one Oswald Cobblepot. When Ecco relayed Nygma and Penguin's shared history, J's smile was far more sinister than even Ecco remembered. He thought long and hard about how to use Nygma to achieve his own objectives. The missing pieces to his grand plan were starting to slot into place.

It was going to be beautiful.

Revising his plan in order to leverage Nygma as a distraction in conjunction with the tarnished guards Ecco bribed was sheer brilliance - and of course, the more convoluted and complicated the concept, the more likely J would be happy with the plan. However, Ecco was the one who came up with the _pièce de résistance_ for blackmailing the GCPD's own. After all, there were _two_ men on the police force that J had a vendetta against, weren't there? J was amazed (and proud, after all, she was his creation) at how resourceful she could be under pressure. He took great pleasure in plotting how to punish the men who had foiled his various plans.

Nygma was the wildcard in all of it - he was as unpredictable and volatile as Jeremiah had been in his glory days. (Ecco never called them his glory days to J's face. Although she didn't mind getting a little roughed up, saying something like that to J now would certainly result in far more than a black eye or a bruised neck.) With Nygma's ego his driving force, it shouldn't be a problem getting him to stick to the script if it harkened to his _own_ glory days. Nygma would be "broken out" of Arkham, given a new "Riddler" outfit as well as a crate of C4 - a small portion compared to the full load J's bomb required - and a "letter" from Oswald Cobblepot instructing him to use the C4 to boldly hold the mayor hostage at Wayne Tower's grand opening. Nygma had kidnapped Mayor Aubrey James when he'd first launched The Riddler alter ego many years ago, and funnily enough, James was once again in the catbird seat as Gotham's mayor. Nygma was sure to find it poetic and a nod to his flamboyant start. 

J simply felt it was too much of a coincidence to be mere chance. It was fate.

***

_(T-minus three months)_

The Riddler's part in the larger plan would simply be to take James hostage and then negotiate with Bruce Wayne at the gala for the mayor's life. No doubt Nygma would throw in a few lame-ass riddles, but that was inconsequential. The real fun would come afterward. You see, J had been a building engineer. He _knew_ that when a new building was unveiled, there was typically an architectural scale model of the building and its structural components on display as part of the festivities. After obtaining the final blueprints (which Ecco had provided at long last), J requested photos of the scale model, which was likely in one of the construction trailers. Imagine his surprise to see the model was actually of a portion of midtown Gotham City itself in 1:2500 scale, showcasing Wayne Tower in the midst of its surrounding skyscrapers and Gotham landmarks.

It was perfect. He changed his plan on the spot.

No longer would he have his own bomb placed at the base of one of the Tower's load-bearing beams. Although that would almost guarantee total destruction of the building, it wouldn't have nearly the same _pizazz_ as the new location - under the scale model, the centerpiece of the gala. Better yet - he'd have Ecco replace the newly designed clock tower model with a model of the one J blew up a decade ago. He could easily design that for her and she could put the detonator inside of it. Now, _that_ was a good joke!

Only Ecco would know how to defuse the bomb, and she would communicate it to one of their bribed guards at the right moment to enable Bruce to save the day. Presuming Bruce showed up at the gala, that is.

Ecco's head swam with all the details that had to be worked out and timed perfectly, including making sure one Detective Harvey Bullock would get his comeuppance for defusing J's maze bomb back in the day. The scruffy detective needed to feel the same terror he'd felt when J pressed the detonator on the Clock Tower all those years ago. Too bad J wouldn't get to see the look on Bullock's face this time. It was certain to be sublime. By the time Bullock ended up beaten to death by a group of vengeful Blackgate prisoners (because Bullock would surely be sent to Blackgate for what J had planned), J would have also dealt with the infuriating Commissioner Jim Gordon.

All that would be left then would be J‘s long-overdue reunion with his dear Brucie.


	11. Chapter 11

_(T-minus three weeks)_

"How does someone manage a government break-in without a trace? Four cases of C4 aren't exactly a handful of rare diamonds, like the museum robbery that took place last month. I mean, where the hell can someone hide that much plastic explosive?"

"Harvey, they've got to have been moved from one warehouse to another over and over to lose the trail. With the amount of shipping activity on the waterfront over the last six months, there's been too much trailer and container traffic to see something like delivery of random wooden crates as being out of the ordinary."

"Jim, they have U.S. printed in _big freakin' letters_ on them!" 

Commissioner James Gordon stroked his newly cultivated mustache. He still wasn't used to having so much hair on his upper lip and had mixed feelings about keeping it. "Harvey, for now, let's focus on the gang infiltration. Maybe the missing C4 _is_ connected to whoever is roughing up the downtown gangs."

Detective Harvey Bullock just nodded, taking a huge bite of his jelly donut. "Mmmph." He swallowed a gulp of lukewarm coffee. "Fine. But I still think that somebody _in the gangs_ must know something about all this activity."

"It could be Cobblepot's doing. His hired muscle may be out there reminding people that he's coming back. I can't see him stealing the C4, though. Not from the government when he's so close to release."

***

"Boss, it's all coming together. A couple of well-placed bribes and Cobblepot will now be officially released the _same day_ as the Wayne Tower opening gala. How's that for a coinkidink? All the proper distractions will be in place; I even have a new suit tailored for ya if ya decide ya want us to hit the streets that night. Done by the same lady who did the new Riddler outfit. I think yer really gonna like it, it's..."

"Is there purple?" J interrupted.

Ecco nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. A nifty purple overcoat and a matching purple striped shirt. Classy. The suit though, it's a shiny green silk and..."

"Gloves?"

"A 'course there are gloves. C'mon, Boss, focus. The suit is..."

"As long as I've got some purple and a pair of gloves it's fine, dear one. I can't waste time on such trivialities right now. I don't plan on leaving the comfort of my little home; I expect Bruce to come to me when it's all over. But I'm worried about this business with the gangs. Who could be out there making trouble? If our hideout is uncovered, the whole Magilla could blow up." J paused and then cackled. "Blow up! See what I did there?"

Ecco smiled broadly. "Sure did, Mistah J. Yer as funny as ya ever was. Can't wait for Gotham to get a load o' you again!"

"Hmm. Yes. Well, keep an eye on the warehouse. This whole gang "crackdown" is troubling. Don't need someone nosing into my business so close to my plan coming to fruition."

"Yeppers. The warehouse is well guarded and there were enough roundabouts between deliveries that no one could have tracked the movement of the C4 to that location. We're good as gold."

"Excellent. Just don't get lax on me now, dear. Too much is at stake."

***

"What do you mean, I'm being released a week early?" Oswald Cobblepot barked into the receiver at his lawyer. They sat on opposite sides of the 3-inch thick glass at the Blackgate Correctional Facility visitor center, communicating through an old fashioned telephone-style intercom. "I can't say I'm unhappy about it, but why wasn't I told sooner so I could prepare? I need to arrange my transportation and lodging! I won't be manhandled like some common criminal!"

"Sir," the lawyer, a highly-paid mob mouthpiece murmured respectfully, "let me handle everything. It's great for your image that we've been given this early reprieve. Good behavior. Reminds the public that you are a valid, contributing member of society."

"Valid? I don't give a rat's ass about public opinion. Make sure my driver is reliable with impeccable credentials! I won't have wasted 10 years in this hellhole only to die in a car crash the day I'm sprung from it! And I want a decent steak and a bottle of 1955 Chateau Petrus Pomerol for lunch that day! Haven't had a goddam decent meal in a decade."

While Cobblepot ranted on, the lawyer only half listened. He wisely kept to himself that it certainly _looked_ as though Cobblepot had been well fed during his stay at Blackgate.

***

"Master Bruce, you should sit still. I can't stitch you up properly if you keep leaning away to type into that infernal computer." Alfred Pennyworth, long-suffering butler and companion to Bruce Wayne sighed heavily as he was forced to tie off another stitch so he could rethread the needle.

"Mmm? Oh, sorry, Al." Bruce distractedly ran the fingers of his left hand over the keyboard. He'd spent years mastering ambidextrous actions, from typing to fighting to shooting so that he would be fully capable at anything should one of his hands become immobilized due to injury. "Just making sure I didn't miss something about that shipment of C4. I can't find one gang member willing to spill the location."

"Well, something like that isn't inconspicuous, Bruce. It will turn up."

"Hopefully before it brings down a building," Wayne grumbled. He gazed at his black cowl, tossed aside when Alfred accosted him to patch up his latest injuries. 

"Gonna be hard for you to show up at the gala if you keep gettin' roughed up like this. How'm I going to explain a bruised cheekbone or a broken wrist to the Wayne Tower patrons, Sir?"

"Tell them it was a skiing accident," Bruce chuckled. Suddenly the audio came to life on the communicator attached to the side of the computer. 

"Bruce? You there?"

Bruce pressed down the call button. "Yes, Lucius. Something wrong?"

"No, no. Just wanted to say I finished the larger prototype of the metal boomerang you were interested in. It's about six inches across now, and I made two versions - one that's sharp for cutting or penetrating, and another that's duller and thicker. You can use the dull one to knock someone out."

"Excellent! I like having options. Is it easy to tell them apart? I'd hate to throw the wrong one at someone's head."

"Yes, they are quite easy to tell apart based on weight alone. Just keep them on separate sides of the belt and you'll be good," Lucius added. "Oh, and Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"If I forgot to say it last time we spoke, welcome home."

"Thanks, Lucius. It's good to be back." He let go of the button and glanced at Alfred, who had a distinct look of pride on his face as he finished up the stitches.


	12. Chapter 12

_T-Minus One Day  
_

He couldn't help the little thrill he felt in his stomach knowing that by this time tomorrow, all hell would be breaking loose in Gotham. Again. All because of him, his plan, his vision. It wasn't exactly pride that he felt; he was such an egotistical man _(I do believe the word is megalomaniac, hmm?)_ that he never felt the need to be proud. He felt satisfaction. He felt superiority. He felt absolute power.

Gotham would remember him. He would never again be forgotten by this city...

...or by Bruce Wayne.

By now J was convinced that Bruce had abandoned their friendship, abandoned him. Greener pastures, he supposed. Wherever Bruce went, whatever he'd gotten up to, it was clearly more important than giving a damn about J's welfare. Ecco had brought him his full medical file a couple of weeks ago, finally smuggled it out overnight for a little _light_ reading. No indication in there whatsoever that J had had any visitors in his near-decade-long isolation in this claptrap. No inquiries, no letters. Nothing.

He was cast aside. It hurt, but perhaps absence will have made the heart grow fonder.

He prepared himself mentally to be wheeled out to the day room for the official kick-off of the grand plan. Ecco would not be the one to take him to the room today; with the gangs getting roughed up, she had switched shifts to make sure everything was in place at their warehouse. The news reports speculated that a mystery vigilante might have been involved in this attempted cleanup of the downtown area. If that didn't beat all! J _himself_ couldn't have thought up something that wildly improbable. Who in their right mind would try to take on Gotham's vast criminal element? Even the GCPD took a restrained approach. As a result of this new wrinkle, J had one last task for Ecco. Already planning to make his warehouse a booby trap, why not frame this alleged vigilante for some murders at the same time? Two birds, one stone. 

With any luck, the Police Commissioner will be one of the first of Gotham's Finest on the scene. After what J had planned for Detective Bullock tomorrow, it was extremely likely Gordon would investigate _that_ bit personally.

A key turned in his cell's lock and a generic resident poked his head into J's room. With a put-upon sigh, the resident came to J's bedside and began wrangling him into his wheelchair. That could only mean that at this moment, his _echo_ was downtown dressing up corpses - like a makeshift funeral director. _Skip the embalming, public cremation to follow!_

J suppressed his urge to smile. 

***

Sweat dripped from Ecco's brow, her blond hair tied back off her face. She had gotten very good at "getting her hands dirty" again; it was like riding a bicycle. She worked side by side with one other woman and two men, all very quiet and competent associates who were skilled in rigging the six freshly murdered gang members' bodies with C4.

It had been a messier affair than she would have preferred; a blood bath, if she was honest, bullets flying and blades flashing. Boss wouldn't have liked it quite this _sloppy_ but there was no time for prettying up the scene. At least they'd all had silencers on. They left the blood all over the blueprints and on the desk and floor. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that fancy-pants Commissioner Gordon was sure to be here tomorrow to investigate. Some lunatic in a cape would get blamed and then - boom. Boom, boom, boom, boom.

They finished up the work and she paid them handsomely in cash. After saying their goodbyes her three associates left Gotham immediately and for good. She'd told them, "Boss said 'get the hell outta dodge,' okay?" and they didn't think twice about it. Only Ecco remained behind to make one last pass of the premises and then lock up the warehouse. The facility had served them well.

Same with the gang members; they had been useful until they weren't anymore. But, c'est la vie.

She got back to Arkham well in advance of the festivities. Just before the appointed time, she hung back in the shadows watching Ed Nygma's minor meltdown with the desk guard who would soon pull the alarm on her signal. She arrived alongside the desk just in time to witness Nygma stabbing something into J's thigh. Again. 

_Sheesh, couldn't that lunatic find a better hobby?_

_***_

Lights out for the 6th floor was 9 PM. It was already 8:30, so she nodded grimly at the guard who verified the time on his cell phone.

3-2-1...

A piercingly loud siren went off, making even the calmest inmates grip their heads and screech in agony. She and the guards had prepared by wearing earplugs. She'd also made sure J had very tiny earplugs that would go unnoticed by anyone who got too close. Guards unlocked the cage and ran in with billy clubs and pepper spray, focusing on the inmates that were making a scene. Nygma was simultaneously approached by two guards on Ecco's "payroll" who put a bag over his head and dragged him away. _Operation Readying Riddler_ was underway.

Ecco darted in, tugged the broken half of a paintbrush out of J's leg with a look of annoyance on her face and then pushed him back to his cell. J blinked in relief; the jagged end of the wood smarted more than the usual shenanigans the inmates got up to for kicks at his expense. Someday he'd give Nygma a little payback for this most recent transgression. But right now, J would be satisfied with Nygma's role as his patsy. Boy, he wished he could see the look on Nygma's face when he realized Penguin had _nothing_ to do with breaking him out of Arkham!

J really enjoyed adding fun twists to his plans and craved for someone _(actually, only Bruce)_ to get his jokes.

He sat still while Ecco tended to his injury. She muttered under her breath about stabbing Nygma herself when his role in all of this had concluded and J started to snicker quietly. 

"I'm assuming by your lack of regular chitchat that everything went off today without a hitch?"

"Like clockwork, just as ya planned. Got some butterflies right now thinking about the big finale though, Mistah J. What if Wayne doesn't show?"

J snickered again. "If Bruce fails to make his appearance, we allow the building to blow up. Just don't let your point person know that that's our endgame. Wouldn't want any cold feet when they realize their life is over."

"Sure thing. What about Nygma?" 

"Retrieve the asset or don't. It's of no consequence to me. Maybe give Cobblepot a heads-up that Nygma's at the gala so that he can fish him out ahead of the blast. I don't really care one way or the other as long as The Riddler serves his purpose with the mayor."

She nodded. "Yeah, maybe I'll let Penguin know. We might be able to use that chit later."

"Okay. Just don't do anything at the expense of the bigger picture. You know how I love a good fireworks show." He paused, stilling her hands with his own gloved ones. "That's enough, I'm fine. Now, what about the final piece: is our sacrificial lamb ready for his big moment?"

"Yep. When he riffled through the envelope, he wept like a baby." She stood up, pleased at the expression on J's face. (She spent enough time as J's nurse to be able to discern even the smallest expression regardless of the scarring.) "It's like I told ya. Never saw someone so ready to commit suicide! Since he was gonna do it anyway I said 'why not get paid for it, buddy?' Now his miserable life has meaning. He gives himself up in honor of the Prophet, his kids can go to college debt-free, and he no longer owes his bookie or his ex-wife anything. All dues paid."

"Such a creative contribution, Ecco. You should be proud of your work." J stood up, testing his leg, and then stepped over to the small window in his door to observe the flashing lights that had accompanied the earlier siren. Stretching his arms wide he spun around and winked at his accomplice.

"Blessed pandemonium. I've never felt more at home here."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> Mind the tags. The Gotham finale is heavily referenced in this chapter, specifically the scene involving Harvey Bullock and the Arkham guard. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

_T-minus 11 hours_

It shouldn't have been this easy. Yet it _was_.

J had worked out the statistical probability on paper to reassure Ecco of the logic behind it. Someone as notorious as Edward "The Riddler" Nygma escaping from Arkham was such big news that the investigation should only be assigned to the most experienced law enforcement officials. The odds of it being handled by either Harvey Bullock or Commissioner Gordon himself were very strong indeed. What sweet revenge for messing with J's maze bomb back in the _before_ time. Of course, the end result still had value if someone more junior caught the case...but it wouldn't be nearly as goddamn _funny_. Only Bullock or Gordon would truly appreciate the joke.

An engineer in a former life, J was rarely wrong when it came to mathematics. He'd also been quite competent at chess.

And so it was that Harvey Bullock snatched the address from Vanessa Harper's grip and personally set out to question the Arkham guard who failed to show up at work that day. Bullock entered the guard's apartment rather _carelessly_ for such an experienced law enforcement official. He took note of the Arkham jacket hanging on the dingy coat hook and then turned into the main room. The detective was caught by surprise, disarmed at the same moment he took an unprovoked right hook to the chin. Landing flat on his ass, he was faced with a desperate man pointing Bullock's own weapon back at him.

"No! Okay, okay..." the detective urged with hands up. Bullock prepared to beg his way out of what appeared to be a precarious situation. He'd done it before: just calm the guy down, talk it out. No doubt the misguided soul just needed to confess what he'd done and would then surrender peacefully. The detective was ready to spout all kinds of platitudes when the direction of things _changed_. 

"Shut up! Talk to _Him_." The guard held his cell phone out to the bewildered detective. Bullock was rightly confused. Who smacks you down only to have you talk to some crank on the phone? It's not like he needed to negotiate his way out of a hostage situation. Such an oddly calculated maneuver. 

"This is Detective Bullock," he intoned carefully, holding up a finger to stave off any idea of being shot while humoring the adrenaline-fueled guard.

"Ah, Detective Bullock. It's been such a long time, hasn't it?" the man on the phone greeted cheerfully. "Listen carefully, now. You need to suspend your understandable disbelief because I have a very important task for you."

He'd instantly recognized that voice - who could forget it? It wasn't quite the same but still projected the quiet, cold authority of the dapper villain in a checkered coat who had wielded a detonator outside of the GCPD some 11 years ago. 

_< <No one has to die. Well, except these people. Because I know seeing is believing. And I _do _want you to believe me. >>_

"You understand?" the desperate man with the gun called out when he saw the recognition on Bullock's face.

Understand? No, he didn't. Not at all. How could this spectre from the past have been roused? Why? But in Gotham, even the dead had come back to life on more than one occasion.

"Oh my God," was all Bullock could get out. Dread settled heavy in Bullock's bones, his skin sparking with irrational fear. 

"I know! I'd be speechless too." The different and yet unmistakable voice continued, "Watch the man in front of you, detective. He has a message for you and in mere moments your role will become clear. And if you don't take up the mantle, well. You wouldn't want harm to come to _Scottie,_ would you? I hear she lives in Metropolis these days. Big city. Accidents happen."

_Check._

"You understand what you have to do?"

When had the guard taken the gun off of Harvey? The man now held it to his own temple with his non-dominant hand - the hand still wearing his wedding ring even though his divorce had been finalized months ago.

"Oh my God," Bullock repeated, grasping the enormity of the implication. His mind whirred. As improbable as it seemed that Jeremiah Valeska could have suddenly regained his consciousness after a decade, it seemed even less probable that Valeska could know about _Scottie Mullen_. Scottie had broken off their engagement years before Valeska had even emerged from his bunker to terrorize Gotham. But then Bullock remembered that he and Scottie still exchanged Christmas cards - her home and work addresses were on his cell phone, on his laptop. He must have been hacked; any information about a cop's family and friends was worth a lot of money to the right people. So it really didn't matter how Valeska had regained his mind or how he found out about Scottie. This was just _Bad_ with a capital B. 

"I don't have a choice!" the guard cried dramatically. Well, that wasn't entirely true. The money Ecco gave him just made it that much easier to make his choice on J's schedule and with a clear conscience.

If the Prophet asked him to ham it up a little on his way out, well, far be it from him to disappoint.

The detective's vision cleared. He understood. He barely flinched when the blood splattered across the family portrait. His only thought playing on a loop in his head was: _I can't let him hurt Scottie_. _I can't let him hurt Scottie_. _I can't let him hurt Scottie_.

"Ah, from the background noise, I can tell we've reached the fork in the road. I'm sure you understand the gravity of the situation, Detective Bullock. Do the right thing; the _only_ thing. And whatever you do, don't utter my name aloud. I'll _know_. Just like I knew where you'd be this morning. Toodles."

_And mate._

Bullock sat there in disbelief, knowing what had to happen next but still gathering his thoughts. Nodding to himself he put the burner phone on the floor, then stood up and crushed it underfoot. Then he made his way to the body, engaged the safety on the still-warm gun and wiped it clean of the guard's fingerprints. Briefly, he considered how to clean any residue from the guard's hand, but it didn't matter. His confession would be enough to seal the deal.

"Nessa," he said tonelessly into his own cell phone. "Send a meat wagon. And would ya come get me?"

"You need a bus, not the coroner right? What happened?"

"Nope, not a bus. Dude's dead. I..." He took a deep breath. "I killed him. I'mma cuff myself now, just...I'd rather you to be the one to arrest me, kay?"

"..."

"Harper?"

"Yeah. Sit tight, Harv. I'm on my way. Don't touch anything."

"Sure."

_I can't let him hurt Scottie._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> The Gotham finale is heavily referenced in this chapter, particularly the warehouse scene. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

_T-minus 7 hours_

The dark figure entered the southside warehouse from the roof. He had been conducting his investigations at night so he would melt into the background, but he just received the tip an hour ago and time was of the essence. At least the skies were suitably dark and cloudy enough to provide him cover.

As he walked slowly through the upper levels of the building it became apparent there was no one here - no one alive, that is. Judging by the smell, he'd have guessed the murders took place 48 hours ago. But when he descended to the main floor, he could see the bodies were fresher than that. Even with gloved hands, he hesitated to touch anything for fear of disturbing the grisly crime scene. 

There were six bodies in all. All had been shot in the head, some at close range. Two of them had their throats slit as well. One of the figures was slumped at a CAD drawing table covered in blueprints, blood soaking the papers. He could surmise from the viscosity of the blood that the bodies had been dead for less than 24 hours. As he approached the desk, he could see something shiny just peeking out from under the dead man's head. The dark figure bent over and sniffed deeply, detecting a faint odor of motor oil near the back of the man's neck. He'd already considered the empty U.S. Army crates off to the side, so he removed a portable ion mobility spectrometer from his tool belt and checked for any presence of DMNB. Government-produced C4 was usually tagged with the organic compound in order to make explosives detection more reliable - and the spectrometer showed exactly that. He held his breath as he moved from corpse to corpse, careful to not jostle any of the bodies out of place as he surveyed their positions.

Each of the six bodies apparently had a segment of plastic explosive wedged under it. The body at the desk had been positioned too hastily; a corner of the foil detonator was just barely visible. Had it not been for that error, he might have missed the setup entirely. As soon one of the bodies was disturbed enough to nudge the detonator resting under it, radio impulses sent wirelessly would set off the explosion in nanoseconds. It was ingenious and, of course, particularly diabolical since the target was clearly meant to be the law enforcement officers investigating the scene. The results would be catastrophic; one explosion triggering all five of the others, destroying the warehouse and anyone in or near it.

"Alfred," Bruce Wayne murmured into his mic, "This is definitely where the missing C4 was stored but most of it's no longer here. What _is_ here has been rigged to explode as soon as one of the bodies is moved off its blasting cap. I can't think of anyone currently active in Gotham that would set such a horrific trap. It's classic overkill."

"I'll make sure the authorities are notified as soon as you are clear, Master B. Think it's connected to Nygma's escape?"

Bruce moved stealthily back to the desk. "Doesn't seem like his style. Too anonymous. He's flashier than this - likes the spotlight." He paused, glancing down. "I'll leave as soon as I check out this blueprint." Carefully, he turned on the lamp, having assessed that it wasn't on a tripwire or timer. The plans showed the new clock tower that had recently been commissioned by Barbara Kean. This new iteration would be built to replace the landmark that Jeremiah Valeska had destroyed a decade ago. Bruce took a few quick pictures with his gauntlet camera as he held back a sigh, feeling a familiar pang in his chest at the memory of Jeremiah. 

"GCPD!" a voice called from the side door.

"Oh, crap," he muttered.

Bruce quickly turned away from the table, cape fluttering as he rappelled up to the second floor using the cable from his grappling gun. Now he'd have to stay and personally let the police know about the bodies so they didn't set off the explosives.

"Alfred," he whispered, "stand down. GCPD is already here."

Bruce made a purposeful clatter to distract the detectives from examining the bodies.

The two investigators, Commissioner Gordon and Detective Harper, split up to locate the source of the noise. 

"GCPD!" Gordon yelled as he ascended the main staircase. "I know you're here. Show yourself." 

Using his voice distortion unit, Bruce replied, "I am not your enemy," and dodged further out of view. Gordon continued along the second-floor landing until Harper came in from the back stairwell and met up with him.

"Don't touch the bodies!" Bruce cautioned, throwing a smoke bomb to make a getaway through the far window. He had to trust that the vague warning had been enough.

***

 _T-minus 3.5 hours_

Three hours after the bomb squad arrived, all six detonators had been defused and the scene was secured. Gordon stood at the second-floor railing and tried to make sense of the clues. Obviously, most of the C4 was still unaccounted for, and the warehouse had been rigged to specifically kill anyone examining the dead gang members. Was the crime connected to the Arkham guard? Possibly, though with him being dead and Harvey booked for his murder, there were no easy answers there. Where does Nygma fit into the picture? Does he?

Gordon had a suspicion that whoever had warned them about the bodies was looking for the C4 thief as well. Maybe it was even the mysterious vigilante that had been getting press for the other gang-related shakedowns. Gordon didn't like vigilantism any more than the next cop; their modus operandi often had an element of emotion to it that impeded an official investigation. But he couldn't help feeling a little better knowing that another set of eyes was out there looking for the explosives that could be _anywhere_ in the city.

"Just got a call," one of the beat cops advised Gordon, breaking him from his thoughts. "Mayor James vanished. And our tail lost Penguin."

Harper, who had just joined Gordon at the railing, thought she'd seen it all when Harvey pulled his crazy martyr stunt this morning. But the mayor missing the day after Nygma broke out of Arkham, the same day Penguin was released from Blackgate? While simultaneously a gangland bloodbath was rigged to blow up the warehouse address that was tipped to the GCPD? This couldn't all be a coincidence. It was starting to feel downright spooky.

"Sir, what the _hell_ is going on?"

"Keep it simple," Gordon said, his mouth a grim line. "Imagine all that C4. What's the biggest target in Gotham right now?" They both turned to peer out at the blackened sky, looking like midnight at just 4:30 in the afternoon. The new Wayne Tower stood tall, shining like a beacon in the darkness. "Double security for tonight's event."

***

_T-minus 2 hours_

It had been such fun tormenting Harvey Bullock this morning. He knew Bullock liked to pretend he was a hard-ass, but underneath it all, he was just a cuddly teddy bear. There was no way the old softie would even consider letting his _friend_ Scottie Mullen and her family get hurt. In actual fact, J had no intention of hurting Mullen; didn't even really care one way or the other. The threat was just a means to an end. Bullock would take the fall for the guard's "murder" and get sent to Blackgate where he'd be dead in less than three months. Poetic justice for tampering with that lovingly constructed maze bomb. J felt the sting even now, remembering pressing the detonator in that panic room full of followers; how they'd turned on him like fickle children. Well, they got theirs, true enough. But he hated being embarrassed and the memory irked him. 

Ecco had parked his wheelchair in the day room while she ran about like a headless chicken as Nurse Helen Weals, taking calls and barking orders, making sure everything was just so. They'd had a minor setback earlier in the day. GNN reported that there had been a bomb scare at a downtown warehouse. The explosives were defused by the heroic bomb squad and there was no threat to the general area any longer. 

_Boo-hoo._ He had so hoped to hear that Commissioner Gordon had been blown to bits.

No matter. The guard and Bullock had played their roles perfectly. J would just focus on the remaining acts in his little puppet show: The Riddler and the mayor were up next. He stared blankly ahead, as he always did while in the public space, but his mind ticked through the rest of the scenarios like a computer. 

_Soon, Bruce. Very soon now._

_Welcome home._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

_T-minus 90 minutes_

Edward Nygma preened in the full-length mirror that was propped against the peeling wall, posing and doffing his hat dramatically. He'd woken in a dingy basement in midtown after a drug-induced sleep, otherwise unharmed and alone. Along with a typed greeting from Penguin atop a partial crate of C4, he found a pristine garment bag, a wheeled suitcase and more typewritten notes detailing next steps and the exact timings of each. Ed was to kidnap the mayor at Wayne Tower (conveniently located three blocks away from this very location) and threaten his life on closed-circuit television at tonight's gala. He would be able to ambush Mayor James at the Tower an hour before the grand opening ceremony at the conclusion of a council meeting on the 30th floor. Ed would be able to access the media studio located behind the grand ballroom kitchen on the 77th floor and he should only broadcast his threat once Bruce Wayne appeared at the ballroom podium. The idea was to negotiate with Wayne for $100 million and a piloted helicopter. There was nothing else included in the notes beyond an assurance that Bruce would deliver the ransom.

The wardrobe left for him included a custom-tailored, green silk suit, black shirt and tie, black leather gloves, black bowler, and a pair of silver Cuban-heeled boots that were simply to _die_ for! The shirt and long-tailed coat were patterned with question marks, and a matching tie pin had been added as a final touch. This was certainly an upgrade from the last Riddler get-up he'd worn in the Narrows, covered in cheap sequins and spangles. At the bottom of the suitcase, he found an attache case in which to transport the C4, wires, and timer. Inside of the attache was a 9 mm handgun with ammo, shoulder holster, a smartwatch, and a pair of green-tinted glasses.

When he went into the tiny half-bathroom to relieve himself before getting dressed, he noted with disappointment that was no shower. To his delight, however, a pair of hairdresser scissors, gel, comb, and a fully charged electric razor were on the toilet tank. A Speed Stick deodorant, soap, and toothpaste were on the sink.

_That magnificent bastard thought of everything!_

After he'd gotten cleaned up and donned his outfit, The Riddler appraised himself and decided he looked _amazing_. How thoughtful of Oswald to obtain his current measurements and lens prescription! Penguin was always one to pay attention to detail, but he obviously had had an inside contact at Arkham. 

***

_T-minus 75 minutes_

On the outskirts of Gotham, a nurse at the bleak Arkham Asylum spent hours on phone calls; checking, double-checking, triple-damn-checking every single detail entrusted to her. This is what it all came down to; in just over an hour, the gala would be underway and the big finale would unfold. 

She'd just received confirmation that Nygma was spotted slipping out of the apartment building dressed to the nines, briefcase in hand and right on time. The Riddler had received his instructions and since he was known to be obsessive about carrying out plans to the letter, he would stick to the prescribed timings unless something drastic happened to foil him. Ecco was told to compensate for the fact that all keynote speeches tended to kick off late, so a 25-minute cushion had been built-in to the plan. She could remotely control the detonator only until the timer began its countdown. After Bruce stepped up to the podium and The Riddler made his declaration, the timer would be tripped locally at her command by a loyal follower of the Church of Jeremiah Valeska. Unless defused by Bruce, the follower who tripped the timer would defuse it _for_ Bruce with a remote control to make the billionaire look like a hero.

J had specifically asked to not be disturbed with each minor detail as it happened; he had painstakingly laid the plans and he would assume all was progressing as expected. For his part in the play, he would be returned to his cell as per usual, at or about 8 PM each night, by whoever was on duty. But tonight, a bribed guard would come by and ensure J's cell was unlocked to speed up Ecco's entry when she brought her cell phone to him so he could speak directly to Bruce Wayne.

Leaving his cell unlocked also fed into two of the three alternate scenarios J worked up _if Bruce didn't show_ :

 _Option A_ \- With no one to negotiate with (to distract the room), The Riddler was to outright kill the Mayor. That wouldn't be such a big deal, just a little messy. At that point, a fake police officer would attempt to extricate Nygma from the premises. Penguin will have been given the heads-up just before The Riddler's proposed entrance; so he'd have time to swing by and pick him up if he so chose. Regardless, if Nygma and the fake cop didn't make it out, they were acceptable collateral damage. After the building blew up, J would still get to speak to Bruce Wayne - once the billionaire heard that his tower had gone up in smoke, along with Gotham's elite and Commissioner Gordon, it would become apparent who was behind it. He'd figure it out.

 _Option B_ \- If A didn't happen because the explosive either didn't work or got defused by someone other than Bruce Wayne or the follower, the alternative retribution was to get at the Commissioner by other means - namely, by nabbing his daughter and holding her hostage. For this, Ecco would have to smuggle J out of Arkham. In fact, a van had been pre-arranged to wait outside the laundry room on the east side of the asylum. This wouldn't be nearly as desirable or as much fun as either the primary plan or even Option A. Bruce would find out that Wayne Tower had been targeted with the missing C4 _and_ that J was conscious and had escaped the asylum. Bruce surely would be able to connect the dots. J didn't know what would happen after that; there were just too many variables. But he definitely expected to have some kind of contact with Bruce as a result.

 _Option C_ \- If B failed (for example, if J was unable to get out of Arkham or was killed during or sometime after the escape) one of Ecco's contacts had been instructed to assassinate the Commissioner at some point during the coming week. They would have already figured out the mastermind behind the bomb's construction and would conclude that the same genius had orchestrated Gordon's murder. Not nearly as colorful as the other situations, but in the event of J's untimely death, Bruce would be notified that the Commissioner's murder was his welcome home present.

 _So many moving parts. Good thing Boss has such a brilliant mind._

Ecco paced the hallway outside her office, waiting for the next call. 

***

_T-minus 60 minutes_

"Master B, I'd really hoped you'd be able to make even the briefest appearance. You know everyone is clamoring to see you."

"Alfred, this situation with Harvey Bullock is really bothering me. We both know he didn't kill that Arkham guard. I've been tailing Oswald Cobblepot to see where he ends up tonight and I expect he will lead me to the stolen C4. I don't want to give up and let the trail get cold. Plus you're so much better handling wealthy patrons."

Alfred sighed. "You're wanting me to give the whole speech, aren't you, Bruce?" 

The butler was sure he could _hear_ Bruce's smile through the phone, behind that blasted damn cowl.

***

Guests started arriving early, mingling at the cocktail hour where the elite rubbed elbows with the average Joes. One such average citizen was Lucius Fox, who met up with Commissioner Gordon's wife, Dr. Lee Thompkins, and expressed his dismay at Detective Bullock's confession. Lee shared her own concerns, for both Harvey's wellbeing and the whole ordeal's impact on Jim Gordon.

Bullock had been held at the GCPD temporarily but was expected to be brought to the Mayor before the end of the night. (One thing hadn't changed about Mayor Aubrey James; he liked people to come to him rather than submitting to others' schedules.) Lucius theorized that James would order Bullock be remanded to Blackgate this evening to evade the press, and taking him through the Wayne Tower parking garage during the gala was a good tactic.

Lee had to drive home tonight and had decided to drink only non-alcoholic beverages. Lucius didn't normally drink anyway, and Jim was on duty. The fact that the three of them remained sober at the gala would end up serving _everyone_ well that night. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related song lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> The Gotham finale is heavily referenced in this chapter, particularly the Wayne Tower gala. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

_T-minus 30 minutes_

Edward Nygma waited in the stairwell until he heard the footfalls fade away. He silently slipped into the conference room as his instructions directed, and found the mayor seated at the long table with his back to the doorway. 

_Oswald, you planned this to the letter, didn't you?_

Nygma couldn't get over how meticulously this scenario had been put together, it was almost spooky. What he didn't know was that Oswald Cobblepot wasn't even remotely involved. A loyal follower of the Church of Jeremiah Valeska had been the one to lay out the seating arrangement and ensure the conference room had emptied before the mayor left. In fact, the follower was dating a city employee - one of Mayor James' very own staff members. It had been so very easy to get the information.

Nygma knocked out Aubrey James with a plastic water pitcher, rolled him onto the food cart left at the back of the room, and covered him with a white tablecloth. It didn't do much to disguise the very tall, very broad mayor, but was sufficient to get him out of the room and onto the elevator.

***

_T-minus 10 minutes_

Catburgler Selina Kyle gazed down at where Edward Nygma lay unconscious on the kitchen floor. "I hope I didn't hit him too hard."

"Don't worry your pretty head," Barbara smirked. "He'll have a headache, that's all. Now," she turned to the mayor, "to get this ninny free." She tore the duct tape from his mouth and Aubrey James took in a huge gulp of air.

"Let me _go!"_ he cried. He struggled harder against his bindings.

"Ugh. I should have left his mouth covered. Relax, big fella. You'll be fine in a few minutes..." Barbara and Selina both bent over to unfasten the straps holding him to the chair.

"Let me UP," he roared, knocking over the chair and almost knocking over the women. "Help!"

"What a doggone minute, James! We'll go with you. Come on, settle down," Barbara huffed. "No gratitude, I tell you."

" _You're_ not wearing a fucking bomb around your chest, are you?" Mayor James retorted. "I am. Again! I need _help_!"

"Jeez. What a drama queen," Selina sighed, snagging a piece of sashimi from the tray Nygma had snacked on before his kidnapping caper went pear-shaped.

"Wha?" Nygma sat up, dazed, staring at the two women and the mayor in confusion.

"See, I told you he'd be fine. Say hi to Selina, Ed."

***

Gordon, Harper and the police team that had been at the bloody warehouse arrived at the Wayne Tower gala just as Alfred Pennyworth was finishing his opening remarks. 

”Evacuate the building - get these people out of here!” the commissioner barked. Before Gordon could do anything else, Mayor Aubrey James barrelled out of the ballroom kitchen, squawking and fretting about the bomb strapped to his upper torso.

"Help! Gordon! Help!" Hands bound in front of him, he stormed across the floor. "Gordon. Help. This lunatic. He kidnapped me again! He tried to blow me up. Again!"

Barbara Kean raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "But we stopped him. You're welcome."

Gordon sighed inaudibly and turned to one of the uniformed cops. ”Take care of the mayor, please? Get that thing off of him." He turned his attention to the would-be kidnapper. Something wasn’t _right_. 

“There were four crates of C4. Where are the rest?” he hurriedly asked Nygma.

“That’s all he gave me.”

Selina added, "He said Penguin broke him out."

”No. Wasn’t Penguin,” the commissioner murmured, feeling real fear for the first time since this ordeal began. "Get him out of there." He looked around and caught Lucius’s eye.

” _What_? Hey, get off me!” The Riddler was forcibly dragged out of the room by a police officer.

"Penguin's not just the patsy. He's not even the real threat. Which means there must be..." Gordon glanced pointedly at the scale model of the city, made his way over and crouched to peer beneath it. The missing bricks of plastic explosive mocked him, their intricate wires completely covering the underside of the miniature buildings. He slowly stood back up and addressed those still in the room.

”If this bomb goes off and Wayne Tower falls, it will take out other buildings. A lot of people are gonna die." He looked at the friends gathered around him who hadn't heeded his directive to evacuate. "You all need to leave right now."

Stricken, Lee said, "So you can stay? Absolutely not." 

"It's too late," Barbara reminded them grimly. "We'd never get far enough away."

Alfred stepped forward and leaned on his cane. "Ms. Kean's right; this stops right here."

Jim put his hands on his hips, resigned. "So how do we defuse it?"

Lucius stood stock still, his mind already having run through the possibilities. There had to be a way out. "We'd have to sever the connectors to the detonator, but the bomber must have hidden it. The wires go up inside the model.”

"It must be in one of the buildings," Alfred mused. Jim thought back to the earlier bloodbath he and Harper had discovered.

"Tracked down a gang today," he started. "They had bombmaking materials. Pictures of buildings...one in particular." He looked at the assembly. "Gotham Clock Tower." 

By the time Gordon and Fox lifted the clock tower model to try and defuse the bomb, the timer had ticked down to _three minutes and seventeen seconds_.

It took _three minutes and sixteen seconds_ for Lee Thompkins and her steady doctor's hands to, after one failed attempt, finally sever the proper connector. 

_One second_.

How fitting, to just scrape by with nearly no time left. How very _Gotham._

***

_Zero Hour_

"Strange. We designed a new clock tower, but this is the _old_ one."

Jim glanced at Lucius, realization slowly dawning.

"That's the answer. Who's behind all this, but...but it's not _possible_."

Alfred felt a cold dread, unlike anything he'd known before except for...oh dear _God._ He made eye contact with Lucius. They had to get word to Bruce.

Unnoticed, Barbara Kean slipped out to go home and get her daughter. Shortly thereafter, she would head out to the one place she'd kept a gun; the only gun she'd held onto but hadn't needed since leaving the criminal world behind. 

***

In Elevator Bank B, a pretend cop had knocked out the actual cop entrusted to arresting Ed Nygma. Simultaneously, a real but crooked cop loaded a handcuffed Harvey Bullock into Elevator Bank D. One elevator went to the lobby floor where outside, a limo was waiting; the other elevator continued down to the parking garage.

"Sir!" Vanessa Harper ran into the room, out of breath. "Sir, Nygma's vanished. There's more. Mayor James ordered Bullock to Blackgate. He's about to be moved."

With the building all but empty, Jim had a quick ride down the nearest elevator.

"Stop! Stop!" Gordon yelled, practically skidding across the new blacktop toward Bullock and the uniformed officer. The two turned around as Gordon neared, chest heaving. "The person who framed you, the one behind Nygma's breakout...Is it who I think it is? Has he been faking it?"

"Jim," Harvey warned, "do _not_ say his name!"

If Jim had looked at the uniformed officer's expression, he would have seen the soulless eyes of a man who had nothing to lose. Instead, Gordon grabbed Bullock's jacket and shook him. "Is it Jeremiah Valeska?" 

The officer reached for his gun. 

Still blessed with the instincts of an experienced detective, Harvey Bullock broke free of Jim and even while handcuffed was able to elbow the armed officer in the face, breaking his nose.

"Harvey!"

"Check him for a wire!"

"What?" This night couldn't get any stranger. Gordon stared at the officer on the ground as if he were a ticking bomb.

"Under his shirt! Check for a wire!"

Jim did as he asked, ripping open the officer's uniform to reveal a wired microphone fastened to his undershirt.

"Oh God, it's too late. He's miked." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Jim, you don't know what he'll do!"

Jim's utter shock warred with disbelief. "How? How did he do this?"

"It doesn't matter _how_. Just know he _did_. He's a fucking genius, remember?"

"How did he get to you, Harvey?" Jim dug through the cop's pockets to find his keys and freed Harvey from the cuffs.

"He threatened Scottie."

"Is she..."

"I called in a favor. She's got police protection right now. But Jim, you can't go after him. If he found out about Scottie to get to me, think about it: who would he use _now_ to get to you?"

"Shit. Barbara Lee...Come on, let's head to Barbara's penthouse. I just brought Barbara Lee back there this morning."

***

Bruce, in his vigilante gear, was poised on a nearby rooftop having followed Oswald Cobblepot's limousine away from Wayne Tower. His communicator buzzed.

"Alfred, what is it?" 

_"Bruce._ I need you to listen carefully and not interrupt."

"Go."

Alfred looked at Lucius, who nodded in support. They were, after all the only two men in Gotham who knew about Bruce's second identity.

"The C4 is here in Wayne Tower. Lucius helped defuse the bomb that would have taken out the building and probably the next city block."

Bruce swore under his breath. "I'd been following Penguin and just suspended him and Riddler from a lamp post on 15th and Broadway. How could he have...?"

"Bruce," Alfred broke in, " _please_. This is the part you need to hear."

Lucius chimed in to lend weight to the conversation. "Bruce, I can vouch for everything Alfred is about to say, but you have to listen. Time is of the essence."

"Okay, I'm listening."

Alfred continued. "Penguin and Nygma have nothing to do with the bomb. They're just pawns in a bigger scheme. I know you'll find this difficult to hear, but...it's _Jeremiah_. He's manipulated all of this from Arkham. He's _conscious_ , Bruce."

"..."

"Bruce?"

"I'm here."

"I know this sounds like we're reaching," Lucius added. "But Gordon just spoke to Harvey Bullock. Jeremiah framed Harvey; Harvey talked directly to Jeremiah on the phone this morning. He's awake, Bruce, and he's likely been waiting for you to show tonight. Everything he ever did, he did with you in mind, remember?"

"As if I could ever forget," Bruce snapped. "Sorry, it's just...a lot to take in. What's my next move? Head to Arkham?"

"No, I don't think so. If he's still there, he's hopefully under lock and key. If he's not there, it's a complete waste of time. He'll be going after Gordon, no doubt, for foiling his plans yet again. What's the best way to do that, you think?"

"You can't mean...even _he_ wouldn't purposely hurt a child, Alfred."

"Bruce. It's been ten years. You don't know what he's capable of anymore. Gordon was headed to Barbara Kean's apartment. Suggest you start there."

_"Christ."_

_***_

_I want to get myself back in again_  
_The soft dive of oblivion_  
_I want to taste the salt of your skin_  
_The soft dive of oblivion, oblivion_

He sat patiently, anticipating the moment he’d be able to savor Bruce Wayne’s voice on the phone.

His cell was unlocked for Ecco’s convenience, but unfortunately, it meant that anyone not locked up could come in. A random orderly came by and tested the door, delighted that today it actually opened. Dares were made between the orderly and an inmate, each carrying a different monetary value. Body punch, face punch, not worth much. But stab the vegetable, get a hundred bucks. 

It reminded J of those dunking booths at the carnival. Or was it the circus? _Step right up, take a chance to knock the kid into the water and win a teddy bear for your girlfriend!_

He was still confused about his childhood; the memories came and went with little to connect them sometimes. He was certain he grew up in some kind of traveling caravan; his family must have been carny people. In some ways it made sense; for example, he could never remember a real home: no house or apartment on a tree-lined street, no walks to school, no pets (though there may have been strays and they may have been _dissected_ ), no neighbors that he could recall visiting. Just muddy campgrounds in his mind's eye. A quiet, _scheming_ , redheaded boy in too-short pants and tortoiseshell eyeglasses walking along a dirt path. Once in a while, he remembered the same boy, but with brighter hair, no glasses and a big laugh stomping in the puddles. It occurred to him he may have had a brother, maybe even a twin. When he considered this for more than a moment, he felt a wave of white-hot anger in his stomach. He always put the thoughts aside at this point so they wouldn't distract him from his immediate objective.

In the present, J felt, rather than saw, the two bodies hit the floor of his cell. He'd narrowly missed getting a spray of arterial blood across his cheek when Ecco slit the first man's throat.

"Bad news, Boss. Our cover's blownskies," Ecco advised solemnly. She knew he wouldn't be happy about having to go to the next alternate plan.

J's shoulders started to shake with silent laughter. Suddenly he let out a cackle and grabbed Ecco by the throat, startling a gasp out of her.

"And how, _exactly_ , did this happen?" he demanded as he stood up and dragged her closer.

"Gordon! It was _Gordon_! He helped deactivate the bomb and then realized it was you because of the clock tower clue we left for Wayne. Boss, yer hurtin' me!"

J shoved her away. "What's next?"

"The van is outside. Change of clothes in the back plus weapons. We've got to go now, though."

"Lead the way," he said menacingly, pushing past her in direct conflict with his order, heading out of his cell impatiently as she followed behind. He kicked off his slippers so he could move with more purpose and agility should the need arose.

 _Bruce, what do I have to do to get your attention?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the amazing Cameron Monaghan, who FINALLY got the recognition he deserves for playing not just *one* perfect Joker, but *three* - Cam won the Teen Choice Award for "Choice Villain" for his role(s) in Gotham.  
> 5 Seasons  
> 3 Jokers  
> 1 Talented Dude


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> Lyrics to "Crimson and Clover" © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, songwriters: Peter Lucia / Tommy James
> 
> The Gotham finale is referenced in this chapter, particularly J's opening salvo at the Sirens. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

The van was parked just past the hot gusts of damp air that billowed from the laundry room vents. J tugged open the doors and leaped up into the back, ignoring Ecco as she scrambled to keep up. 

"To whom am I speaking?" he asked in the direction of the van's driver as he began hastily pulling off his prison gown to get into the colorful suit that had been custom-tailored to fit his now thinner proportions.

"Billy Farrow, Sir."

"Billy, hmm? Do you know who I am?" J admired the socks as he tugged them on, sitting stark naked on the floor of the van with his back to the driver.

"Indeed, Sir. I was told not to say your name," the driver confessed quietly, resolutely not looking in the rearview mirror as he rolled the van quietly through the Arkham Asylum gates.

"Excellent." J smiled as he shifted around to pull satin boxer shorts up to his waist, taking care to avoid jostling the port in his abdomen. "What are we hearing from our lookout, William? I _can_ call you William, can’t I? " he purred after getting on his green silk gabardine trousers and nonchalantly threading a black leather belt through the pant loops. "Where is the Gordon girl?"

"Boss..." Ecco chimed in.

"What is it, dear? I'm talking to _William_." J turned his head and looked over at his accomplice, who had finished putting her sparkly red and black leggings on under her nurse's uniform. 

"I just wanted to say there's still no sign of Wayne at the Tower, even now."

"Fine, fine. He'll deal with me eventually. Let's just continue with the plan. If this doesn't bring his bleeding heart out of hiding, I don't know what will."

J's fingers didn't hesitate for a second while he buttoned his purple striped shirt. He'd closed his eyes to force his hands to rely solely on muscle memory; he knew if he thought too hard about what he was doing after not dressing by himself for so long, he'd be paralyzed. Ecco had him practice during their late-night occupational therapy sessions, but hesitance had resulted in a certain amount of clumsiness. He was determined to do this on his own, his way. He quickly snatched up the iridescent necktie while Ecco waited nervously at his side.

"I'm fine, don't _hover_ ," he hissed, eyes closed yet again as he slid the fabric under his collar and expertly looped the ends as if he'd done it every day for the past 10 years. Ecco's mouth dropped open in admiration but she said nothing.

Billy waited patiently until it seemed appropriate for him to answer J's earlier query.

"Sir?" Billy cleared his throat. "Miss Kean has already been back to her apartment building and left with the girl. The tail is behind them and she's driving across town."

"I see. Perhaps we didn't plan for that, hmm, Ecco?" He narrowed his eyes at her as she cinched up her bustier and dug the pins out of her hair so she could tease the straightened locks into the chaotic style she had once favored.

"She ain't been to her old club in six months, Boss. Maybe she's got something stashed there. Ya know, with a kid around she might not keep a piece in the house."

"Yes. Good point. What do _we_ have in terms of weaponry, then?" He pulled on a matching green suit jacket and gestured impatiently for the white greasepaint Ecco had tugged out of her duffel bag.

"A Sig Sauer and a retractable stiletto for your sleeve. I'm going with a good-sized Bowie knife to do maximum up-close-and-personal damage. There's a small Ruger with an ankle holster if you want those as well."

"Yes, I'll take all of it," he muttered, smoothing the theatrical foundation carefully over his scarred cheeks with bare fingers. 

For all that J had dressed quickly, he planned to take painstaking care with his face. He wanted to mimic the way Bruce would have remembered him in the _before_ time, even if it was a ghastly imitation."Do you have black eyeshadow and my lipstick?" She handed them over before he even finished the question and went back to fussing with her hair. He dusted eyeshadow in the already dark hollows below his lower eyelids, but it didn't make his eye color pop the way smokey eyeliner had when he had silvery irises. He silently admonished himself for not having had the forethought to request an eyebrow pencil. He'd just recalled that he had excellent brows back then....when he had hair.

"William, let's head to Miss Kean's club and meet our prey there. Ecco," he sighed, studying his changing reflection in the cheap handmirror, "please double-check that everything at Ace Chemicals is ready for us. I'm not athletic enough at this point in my recovery to truss up a little girl and suspend her from the pulley system all on my own." 

"Got it, Boss," Ecco murmured, taking out her phone as Billy drove them away from the dismal outskirts and into Gotham proper.

***

"Clear! Oh, fuck! They're not here," Harvey called from the bedroom. "Where would Barbara go?" he asked, holstering his weapon as he returned to the living area.

Jim ran his fingers through sweaty hair, standing in the middle of the dining room, panting. He turned in a circle, thinking, thinking. "Sirens? I mean, it's not her primary business but it's either there or the new building she's working on."

"Does she maybe keep a safe or somethin' at the club, do you think?"

"That must be it," Jim agreed, heading to the front door. "C'mon, she must still have a gun there and she's clearly worried. Good thinking on her part, that she already knows Jeremiah would come after our little girl."

***

Barbara Kean's relief had been palpable when she got home and found her daughter reading quietly in her favorite armchair. Even now, she made sure to tune into a commercial-free satellite radio station so no local news would be broadcast in the car. At ten, Barbara Lee Gordon was more mature than most girls her age and Barbara, Jim and Lee all spoke to her like the adult she was growing into. But tonight? Barbara felt in her bones that, although one catastrophe had been avoided, something _really bad_ was going to happen and she needed to protect her daughter - even if that meant treating her a little more like a child.

"Mom? You never go to the club at night. And I could have waited at home. I thought..."

"Shh. I know you have questions," Barbara said, as she threw the car door open in her old parking spot behind the nightclub. "But I need to think right now, sweetheart."

"Kay." Barbara Lee could be patient. Her mom didn't lie or hide things from her, so if she just waited she'd probably get the information she needed. Or she'd just figure it out - she liked analyzing clues. Sometimes she thought she might be a detective like her dad, or maybe even a forensic computer analyst. 

Barbara was so lost in thought, she didn't see the beige van parked out front and didn't know that the main door had been compromised. She and her daughter entered through the back employee entrance. No alarm system was active; the Sirens hadn't been used in some time, although Barbara made sure it was regularly cleaned and ready for rental. It wasn't called the Sirens anymore, either. It had a new sign out front, "Gotham A-Go-Go: Event Planning and Catering," that established the club as a respectable business rather than a former weapons trafficking mob hangout.

As the Barbaras entered the building, J was sifting through the records in the DJ booth, grinning to himself that the club still had old-school vinyl platters. He knew how to work one of these turntables; he remembered it from his college days...or was it from his childhood - at the carnival? He shook his head to banish the thought before he could get distracted by incomplete memories. He found an album near the top of the stack from Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and flipped the cover over in his yellow gloved hands. He recognized the song title "Crimson and Clover." He held back a snort, entertained by how ironic some of the lyrics he recalled might be in this situation - with him free from prison, able to do what he wanted tonight to get Bruce Wayne's attention again. _Finally_.

 _Yeah, my, my such a sweet thing_  
_I wanna do everything_  
_What a beautiful feeling_

And as a bonus, red and green were two of his favorite colors and they were _right there_ in the title and chorus of the song! Too bad there wasn't some purple in there. _Too bad my goddam leather gloves aren't purple either._ He slid the vinyl record from its sleeve, cued up the record player and stood at the ready until he got the word from Ecco.

Ecco meanwhile stood facing the bar, cell phone in front of her so she could text J as soon as she heard Barbara moving around in the manager's office.

**_She's here. <Send>_ **

J counted to ten, pushed the volume lever all the way up, dropped the needle and straightened his purple overcoat as he waited to make a grand entrance.

***

Bruce was too far behind. ( _Too late?_ he pushed from his thoughts.) When he emerged from the roof stairwell, he could see that the front door to Barbara's penthouse apartment had been kicked in and his heart jumped into his throat. He quickly ducked in, cape billowing behind him, only to find that the apartment wasn't ransacked at all; it must have been Gordon and Bullock that broke the door down. No signs of a struggle, nothing out of place except for the entryway. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

He hadn't seen Barbara Lee since she was an infant, he hated that she'd already grown so much without knowing him and he might not ever have the chance to see what a fine young woman she'd become. _Shit, shit, shit. Jeremiah wouldn't kill a child. He couldn't._ Brucerepeated it again and again, but the person he was trying to convince was himself. He contacted Alfred and charged back up the stairwell to continue across the rooftops to the next logical location for his rendezvous with destiny.

***

Barbara Lee had given up. Her mother was just too tense and anxious for this to be a routine visit to the club. Especially at this hour of the night. Something was very wrong. As they entered the manager's office, she finally pressed the issue again.

"Something happened tonight, didn't it? Why won't you tell me?" 

"Because everything worked out okay," she turned and smiled at her daughter. "Didn't it?"

"So, why are we at your old club?" the girl asked, trying desperately to understand.

"Because mommy just needs to get something," Barbara said absently, opening her desk drawer and taking out the loaded handgun that she kept there.

Barbara Lee knew about the gun, so she wasn't nearly as surprised as she could have been; her mother had told her about it just about six months ago when they were going over safety procedures. Barbara Lee wanted to learn how to shoot and Barbara told her that she could take lessons when her father decided she was old enough - and that she would start with rifle training. It was just so odd - unsettling - to see her mother dressed to the nines in an evening gown and heels, brandishing a weapon. What on earth had happened?

"Did something happen to dad?"

"No! No, of course not, sweetheart. There was a...situation at the gala tonight. I'm just..."

**_Ah,_ **

Barbara immediately turned toward the opening notes of a song, on high alert. Barbara Lee never took her eyes from her mother, cataloging her facial expressions as music filtered in from the dance floor.

_**now I don't hardly know her** _

"Wait here, okay?" she ordered her daughter, hands clasping Barbara Lee's upper arms in reinforcement. Then she strode confidently out of the office, nerves in check and gun pointed at the intruder that dared enter her space.

_**but I think I could love her** _

A figure was standing a few dozen feet away, head bowed, wearing a shimmering black and red leather-like outfit. Barbara blinked in surprise. In her encounters with Jeremiah Valeska, she had never met the female that was rumored to often accompany him. But back in the day, she'd heard from Selina that the woman was blond and wore a jester's costume. This didn't appear to be a jester per se, but she sure was blond.

It must mean Jeremiah wasn't far behind.

"Turn around!"

The figure didn't move.

**_Crimson and clover_ **

"Turn _around_! I won't ask again."

Barbara was right. Jeremiah wasn't far behind at all. He was _directly_ behind.

Directly behind _Barbara_ , that is. She jolted in shock, turning her gun toward the teasing voice that rang out mere inches away from her.

 **"Surprise!"**


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> The Gotham finale is referenced in this chapter, particularly the main Sirens scene. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

> _Barbara was right. Jeremiah wasn't far behind at all. He was_ directly _behind._
> 
> _Directly behind_ Barbara _, that is. She jolted in shock, turning her gun toward the teasing voice that rang out mere inches away from her._
> 
> _**"Surprise!"** _

Reflexes sharp, J smacked away Barbara's gun and shoved her back into Ecco's waiting arms. Ecco held her Bowie knife to Barbara's throat and smiled adoringly at her Prophet.

"Easy," J cooed. "It's just a surprise party. For _you_." J almost curtsied, using the hand loosely holding his gun to sweep out the left side of his purple overcoat like a cape and bowing in mock supplication. "Barbara Kean, queen of Gotham, business titan. How exciting!" For a moment, he almost looked faintly impressed but then his expression retreated into something like self-deprecation. "But there was another _you_ , I seem to recall. Wasn't there?" He turned away briefly, smirking. "Then again, there was, uh, another _me_ , too. Oh, so hard holding on to what's real. Huh. It's enough to drive you mad." He chuckled personably, swaying in place.

Barbara Lee crept out of the office during J's monologue and grabbed a metal candleholder on the nearest table. She flung it with all her might at the arm holding her mother in place, distracting Ecco long enough for Barbara to wrestle free and twist the knife out of her hand.

So focused on Barbara and Ecco, J hadn't even considered worrying about a ten-year-old girl and he stared at her, mildly affronted as she started fiercely smacking him. 

Barbara Lee's grunts of effort drowned out the sound of her mother gutting Ecco with the jester's own hunting knife. Barbara got two deep jabs in before J noticed the struggle and casually shot Barbara in the knee while holding off the little girl's frenzied attack.

"Mom!" Barbara Lee shrieked, seeing her mother fly across the floor and land in a heap. Ecco's bloodied knife skittered out of reach across the polished floor.

"Cute," J remarked, as the child kept smacking him in retaliation for hurting her mother. He grabbed her arm as she gnashed her teeth and raged like a wild animal. "She has your eyes," he mused aloud, narrowing his gaze. "For now..." he mocked, smiling briefly as he finally grabbed the little girl and hoisted her up onto his left hip like she weighed nothing at all.

"No! Put me down!"

When J turned his attention back to Ecco to give his next set of instructions, his faithful henchwoman was staggering in place, holding her abdomen with a vacant stare.

"I...ohhh...think she..." The blond took her hand away and thick, dark blood poured forth from jagged exit wounds where the knife had been dragged and twisted mercilessly. "...Nicked me, Daddy," she murmured feverishly. Ecco's neck and shoulders, devoid of makeup, were drained of her natural color from the sudden, swift blood loss.

J‘s eyes grew round, pupils dilating in alarm. This...was definitely not planned for. She was in shock and bleeding out right in front of him.

He had met Ecco some fifteen years ago, and as close as they had become, she never would have called her employer something as familiar or, dare he say, distasteful, as _Daddy_. From what he knew of her childhood, her father had left when she was barely six years old. She had been traumatized and heartbroken and he suspected she spent her whole life seeking a father figure. When J had gone by the name Xander Wilde at that time, he realized his friend was looking for a man to fill the void that he could never satisfy. It was just one more reason things could never progress between them, even had he been remotely interested in more than a platonic relationship. 

This recollection quickly flew through his computer-like mind as he sought to justify her words. He'd seen her in many tenuous situations; she was a trained assassin and had even survived a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head - but she'd never lost awareness of her surroundings. She was delirious and fading fast.

"I...oh, boy." The sound of blood splattering on the floor punctuating her words moved him to action. _This was his fault._ Barbara Lee Gordon may have caused Ecco to lose the knife and Barbara Kean may have been the one to sink the blade in...but J was the one who ultimately gave the orders that brought them here to this place.

He could do nothing to take it back but...in the end, he could give her _something_.

"Oh, dear me," he said softly. "My sweet Ecco, no longer my echo.” He paused, stretching his mouth to approximate a comforting smile. "There'll never be one like you."

"Really?" His faithful echo, his first follower and closest friend stared at him in wide-eyed wonder like the little babe she had reverted to in her head.

For as many times as she’d stitched his wounds, he didn't have those skills and they both knew it. He wouldn't let her slowly bleed out in enemy territory. It was a split-second decision; one he knew, if she’d been in her right mind, she would understand. The Prophet granted her a last mercy.

He shot Ecco in the heart. 

Maybe she did understand. She gave him a beatific, blood-filled smile and crumpled at his feet.

He blinked. There would be time to mourn later, if he survived. For now, it was back to business.

"But...I suppose there _are_ other fish in the sea," he snarked. _No sense in anyone thinking I'm soft._ He turned away.

"No, let me _down!"_

The child on his hip, surely too young to be unaffected by such violence first hand, did not waver from her demands. Her elbows shifted back to connect anywhere they could; her feet kicked and legs splayed to wriggle free. It didn’t matter. J dragged her forward and purposefully pistol-whipped her mother in front of her, briefly allowing a moment of personal anger escape at Barbara Kean's part in Ecco's unexpected demise.

"Mom!"

"Hush, little Barbaras," he rasped, setting Barbara Lee on her feet, lowering himself to her height. "Don't...say a...word." Kneeling, he shoved his gun under her mother's chin, glancing back at the child with a hand on her forearm in clear warning before addressing her mother. “Now we're going to play a little game. By now James Gordon should have made it to your apartment. When he gets here, I want you to deliver a message. Okay?" 

Trembling, Barbara gasped and attempted to nod her head even with the cold metal against her jaw. 

_"Okay?"_ he asked again, giggling maniacally as he turned and stared first at the little brat who had caused all the trouble and then back at her mother. "Okay." He bared his teeth in a feral grin. It hadn't been his plan to actually kill his bargaining chip tonight, but now? 

Why not?

***

J had never been a sentimental man. In the parade of murky memories that continued to march through his mind, he could recollect no such personality attribute and so he resisted the urge to take Ecco's tasseled collar necklace as a keepsake. Instead, he scooped little Barbara Lee up and threw her over his shoulder, humming to himself as she kicked and punched ineffectually at him. With his remarkably high pain tolerance and the rush of adrenaline, he could barely feel her fists.

"Nice sweater," he murmured as he sat her down inside the waiting van. "I couldn't have picked a nicer color myself."

"I hate you!" she spat, trying one last time to hurt him, kicking him with both feet in the groin. He shoved her down (just as a matter of principle, it hadn't really hurt) and slapped duct tape over her mouth so he didn't have to hear her as he bound her wrists and ankles.

”William, carry on. Next stop, Ace Chemicals.”

”Sir, is Miss Ecco going to meet us there?”

”No, she’s been detained. Go!”

Barbara Lee Gordon lay quietly on the van floor, alternating between memorizing her surroundings and impassively watching the strange, scarred man carefully reapply his red lipstick.

Commissioner James Gordon and Detective Harvey Bullock took no notice of the nondescript beige van as it traveled south past their sedan in typical evening traffic while they rushed to Barbara Kean’s club. 

A masked vigilante in black armor used a military grade grapnel to traverse from building to building, still precious minutes behind Gordon and Bullock.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> The Gotham finale is referenced in this chapter, specifically the Ace Chemicals confrontation. Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 12 "The Beginning" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

Alfred Pennyworth sat in the control room - the cave under Wayne Manor - listening to the police scanner and checking Bruce's heat signals as he moved from place to place. Lucius Fox, a frequent guest of Alfred's in the years Bruce lived abroad, sat at Alfred's side sipping a cup of lukewarm Earl Grey tea.

"It would just be faster to call Harvey."

"Mate, I know that. But I don't want to tip our hand," the butler groused.

"Is it tipping our hand if I'm the one that calls, though? They won't know I'm with you."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Are you takin' the piss? You're here more than you're at your own place, Lucius."

"You know we shouldn't wait any longer, Al. He's already lost too much time." Lucius picked up his GCPD-issued mobile and direct-dialed Bullock.

"What's up, Lucius?" Bullock huffed after only one ring.

"I'm about to ask you the same. What's happened? Any word on Jeremiah?"

Bullock sighed. "I'm at the old Sirens club waitin' on an ambulance. Babs took a bullet to the knee. Jim's on his way to Ace Chemicals, alone, like the stubborn ass he is. Oh, and Valeska's blond sidekick is lying dead in a pool o' blood. What's new with you?"

"Ace...Chemicals?" Lucius repeated for Alfred's benefit. Alfred moved far enough away from the phone so he could communicate with Bruce and not be heard.

"Yeah. Loony grabbed little Barbara Lee and took off for his old alma mater. This day could _not_ get more fucked up."

"Don't be so sure," Lucius murmured, catching Alfred's eye. "Jeremiah kidnapping Barbara Lee could go from bad to worse."

"Bollocks," Alfred groaned.

***

Ace Chemicals had changed hands several times over the ten years Jeremiah Valeska was out of commission. The current owner was a businessman who converted the processes to develop standard-use pesticides rather than experimental gases and liquids. Even with proper usage, the chemicals were pretty toxic. They were also formulated to retain the instantly recognizable neon green hue that was Ace's trademark.

The hoist mechanisms were, like everything else in J's plan, studied in advance. Ace Chemicals still employed old-school methods to fill and lift drums of pesticides - by means of a standard double block and tackle with wire ropes and pulleys. Ace had never converted to an electric crane hoist, where chains would have been inconveniently enclosed in a sealed metal box. Ecco had bribed an Ace Chemicals employee to replace the wire rope with double-braid nylon "rescue" rope in the tackles, and he was to bring the free ends down to the catwalk for J's use. He would use the fall line to lever the girl up after securing her with the dead line. By using a flexible nylon rope, they could securely wrap the girl's upper body rather than simply bind her wrists and suspend her from an eye hook. It wouldn't be any fun if her arms were dislocated and she passed out from the pain.

J had standards, after all.

The van driver was dismissed with an envelope of cash that had been in Ecco's duffle bag, and J pocketed the keys. He had no illusions that he could drive particularly well after all these years, but at least he'd have a chance of getaway. Billy took off into the night and was never seen again.

The Ace employee was waiting on the catwalk when J arrived, and the two of them worked quickly to get Barbara Lee in position - intentionally next to the missing railing where Jeremiah Valeska fell a decade ago. She squirmed and fought, but her struggle was no use against two men. It was only after Barbara Lee was hoisted up over the chemical vat that she let the tears come. She was well and truly terrified now, and every so often, her muffled cries echoed through the plant.

***

Having made up some time thanks to Lucius's conversation with Bullock (and Bruce was going to talk to Alfred about getting some kind of permanent wire into the GCPD rather than use the scanner after this nightmare), the masked vigilante climbed along the roof of the chemical plant, looking for any advantage to get in without being detected. He'd already peered through a skylight and saw Barbara Lee struggling over a vat of chemicals and his heart sank. He hadn't believed Jeremiah would do something so heinous to a child, yet, here they were.

He slipped in through one of the air vents at the base of a smokestack and was able to crawl along the perimeter of the enormous plant on the topmost footbridge, an unrailed ledge not wide enough to be considered a catwalk. How could Bruce rescue the girl if Jeremiah was the one holding the fall line? He glanced up at the block and tackle and saw how it was rigged. There was a short staircase that led up to the pulleys if he needed to get up there but it might be faster in the end to use his grapnel.

Holy hell, was the man wearing white face paint and red lipstick?

***

"Come along, Commissioner. We're waiting. The party's raging but it's well past the princess's bedtime." J made a grim approximation of an empathetic smile. "It's funny being back here. I can still feel my flesh sizzle as it melted away. Burns even now, ooh." He shook out his right leg and seemed to lose his grip on the rope, whether for real or for Gordon's benefit and sheepishly looked back at the commissioner. Barbara Lee gave a sharp cry of alarm.

"I'm here," Gordon called out to his daughter. "Everything's gonna be fine."

"You think so? Personally, I'd say things are about as far away from fine as they could possibly be, Barbara Lee," J mocked. "What do I know, I did just spend the last ten years in the funny farm, " he giggled maniacally, holding tight to the fall line suspending Barbara Lee over the vat.

Bruce crept along the ledge, mentally calculating his arm speed and the potential trajectory of his shurikens the closer he got to where Gordon and J were standing. 

"What do you want, Jeremiah?" Gordon implored, voice cracking on the villain's given name. 

"Is there a Jeremiah here?" J asked, glancing around.

"So what do I call you?"

"Uh, I don't know. Call me Jack. Mmm, no, no, no, that's not right. Joseph. John. Jay. I don't know. I just...I feel something new crawling from the primordial ooze that _was_ me. Something _beautiful_." 

"How long have you been pretending to be brain-dead?" Gordon slowly continued to advance toward J, gun trained on his chest. 

"How long have you? That's a joke, I know you're not pretending. That's far enough, James." J stuttered out a few notes of calliope music as he let the rope out a bit, unintentionally recalling his circus upbringing. Barbara Lee squealed and stared daggers at the scarred man, face wet and brow furrowed in fear.

"But you still haven't told me. Why? Why keep pretending?" Above them, Bruce waited, almost in position but keen to hear the answer.

J gave his first sincere smile of the night, almost forgetting the girl was there. His bloodshot eyes grew gentle, almost dreamy.

"I was waiting for him to come home."

Bruce froze. So that _was_ the plan. He could have kicked himself for not being at the gala earlier. This kidnapping might have been avoided had he not been running around trying to solve the missing C4 puzzle. It was meant to draw him out to his building's grand opening and he blew it. He almost let out a frustrated huff but he was stunned into silence by the man's next words.

"We're bound together, he and I. It's the one thing I knew for certain. The one thing I knew was true. And then he just abandoned us." Emotion clearly showing on his ruined face, he asked, "Do you know how it feels to have the one, the _only_ thing you love ripped away from you?" He stared at Gordon, nodding when he was sure the man was completely focused on him. "It feels like this."

J released the fall line. With his army reflexes still intact Gordon dropped his weapon and lunged forward, falling to the catwalk but holding tight to the line with both hands.

Bruce silently jumped to his feet, the movement catching Gordon's attention. The commissioner's eyes tracked from his daughter to the dark figure on the ledge, feeling a small amount of hope. However, J was cackling behind him and Gordon heard the tell-tale sound of a blade being unsheathed. He held on with all his might, but J sank the knife into the fleshy part of his right side, thankfully, well above the kidney.

"Disappointing as tonight was," J laughed, "I will say, it is fun carving up Filet-o-Commissioner!" As he drew his arm back to strike Gordon again with the knife, a metal projectile hummed through the air and knocked the knife out of J's hand. Alarmed and angry, J staggered backward and drew out his pistol. "Who's there?! What do you want? Show yourself!" He weaved about jerkily, trying to locate whoever it was that dared spoil his moment. _"Show yourself!"_

A series of low growls emanated from the vigilante's voice modulator and Bruce banged a shuriken on the pipe next to him to draw the villain's attention up to the ledge.

J stared up at the dark figure above them, tall and imposing with cape spread and face nearly covered with a black helmet. Were those bits on top meant to be ears?

"You."

J had, of course, heard about the vigilante on the news, everyone had. But how would this do-gooder have known about the kidnapping in enough time to get here? 

Then J saw the figure move, the broad, armored body shifting into a stoic fighting stance, jaw thrust forward and mouth a tight line. The recognition hit him like a bolt of lightning. He started to laugh hysterically and aimed his gun at the pipe next to the vigilante. _It can't be. Brucie is the vigilante?_

Another metal projectile flew in his direction, this time connecting with his hand as he pulled the trigger. The gun dislodged and fell, and J stared at his right hand which had been neatly pierced through the palm by a wide, wing-shaped shuriken. He shrieked with glee, amazed that _this_ was how he was meant to meet his beloved Bruce Wayne again. Delighted, he completely disregarded the danger he was in. J pointed up at the vigilante and laughed uncontrollably as if to say, _oh, I know who you are, darling._ Another shuriken, the one Lucius had designed to be used especially for this purpose, collided with his forehead. He dropped like a stone.

Gordon, meanwhile, struggled mightily with the fall line and his bleeding side.

"Hold tight just a bit longer," the vigilante called through the voice modulator. "I'll steady it." Bruce shot his grapnel at the platform directly above them and swung up onto the short staircase. He used a metal winch to lock the rope in place until Gordon could collect himself and lean against the railing for leverage. Then together they worked to raise the girl level with the staircase so Bruce could grab and untie her. The little girl clung to him while he wove back along the upper ledges until he was directly situated across from Gordon again. 

"Can you stand?" he asked the girl in his normal voice. She nodded as he set her down and carefully peeled away the duct tape from her hair and mouth. "Okay. You've been very brave. I need you to be brave just a little longer." He squatted down and held out his arms. "Hold on to me." She threw her arms around the stranger's neck and hung on for dear life as he aimed his grapnel at a ceiling beam and then swung them both over to the ledge above the catwalk. "Good girl," he whispered to her as he lowered her down to Gordon. 

As quickly as Gordon settled Barbara Lee on the ground, Bruce was already over to the other ledge so he could leave the same way he came in. He watched their reunion briefly and then cast an eye in Jeremiah's direction. The villain was still out cold. He'd let the GCPD handle this now.

"It's okay. It's alright. I got you, okay?" Barbara Lee teared up in relief and her father embraced her fiercely. When he looked up again, the vigilante was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

_2:18 a.m._

The man formerly known as Jeremiah Valeska began to stir on the gurney. As he slowly regained consciousness, he remembered he no longer needed to pretend that he was still braindead. It was a bit of a relief. He also realized there was someone else in the sickbay with him. His nostrils flared with a long-ago scent memory and he smiled, eyes still closed.

”You came,” he rasped. He softly cleared his throat so his next words would be less scratchy.

Bruce stayed quiet, torn between curiosity and a nagging tension in his gut.

”My dear," J continued. "No need to be shy. _Bruce_.”

”How do you know it's me sitting here?” Bruce whispered, not wanting to alert Detective Harper that Valeska was awake.

Bloodshot hazel eyes opened and shifted in Bruce’s direction.

”Why, I can smell you, of course.”

Bruce huffed a chuckle. “What, _eau de_ regret and bad choices?”

J giggled quietly. “No, I’m not _that_ good. You're wearing Creed Aventus, darling. I recall it being your fragrance.”

Bruce’s cheeks pinked adorably as J studied his expression. He attempted to raise the arm closest to Bruce and made a noise of frustration when he couldn’t.

”Easy. Don't move too much, you've got stitches in your forehead and hand. They've restrained you."

”There’s a surprise,” the scarred man smirked. "I'm sure they're so concerned I'll pop my stitches." 

“Hey.” Bruce pressed the morphine pump into J’s left palm. “If you need pain medication, you press this button...What? What’s funny?”

”Bruce. Dear. I know how it works.”

”Oh. Of course, you do.” The billionaire shook his head, momentarily feeling foolish.

"Sweet of you, though. By the way, those were some pretty impressive ninja stars you threw around at Ace,” J remarked. “I don’t suppose they’d let me keep the one that you embedded in my hand, hmm?”

”Ninja stars?” There’s no way that Valeska could have known it was him at the chemical plant.

”You know, the sharp metal objects shaped like...were they bats, then? I didn’t have a chance to really study them. I was quite distracted, after all. Bats. You were afraid of them once, weren't you? How clever! Overcoming your fears, just like I taught you.”

”I don’t know wh...”

J sighed heavily. “Don’t, Bruce. It's _me_ you're talking to. Your secret’s safe with me; you know how much I love secrets.”

”What makes you think that whoever you saw at the chemical plant was me?” Bruce leaned a little closer.

”How many other men care enough about Gotham to clean up what the GCPD can’t handle? I’ll admit, I hadn’t originally suspected you were the mysterious vigilante. But when I saw you move around on that ledge, your body language was all it took to convince me; that and your stubborn chin. I _know_ you, Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t respond immediately, startled at just how remarkable the man's mind was after all he'd been through.

"I have some questions."

”Hmm?” J turned his face a little further toward the billionaire.

"Were you really going to kill that little girl?"

"Bruce. Don't you think if I'd wanted Barbara Lee dead, she'd be dead? Fairly easy to accomplish without all the fanfare. No, no. I simply wanted Commissioner Gordon to _think_ I was going to kill her so he could ride in and rescue her like the white knight that he is."

"That would be a little more believable if you hadn't started carving him up," Bruce deadpanned.

"Pfft," J scoffed. "Just spicing things up a little. The man can't have _everything_ handed to him. He needed to work a little for it. Next question?"

"Why try to blow up Wayne Tower?"

J looked genuinely hurt. "Do you really need to ask me that?" 

Bruce leaned back a little in his chair, trying to keep his temper. "To get my attention."

"Yes, of course. It's why I do anything, isn't it?"

"If you wanted my attention, why not just let someone know you'd regained consciousness?" Bruce snapped.

"How would that have gotten your attention exactly? You. Weren't. _Here_."

Even as he'd anticipated this eventual turn in the conversation, the billionaire flinched.

”So here's my question for _you_ , Bruce." J’s dark eyes were as unreadable as they had been when the insanity gas turned his irises to a cold silver. "Why did you leave?” 

_Why did you leave me? _ hung in the air, unspoken.

"It's not...I didn't..."

"Oh, didn't you? Did I misunderstand?" J asked sarcastically. "Billionaire Bruce Wayne walked away from Gotham a decade ago. Even an Arkham patient can work out that the timing was prodigiously close to my dunk in the chemical vat. Why. Did. You. Leave?" 

"I just...I needed to leave to become a better man; I didn't come home until I was capable of protecting the people I care about."

J stared at him, waiting.

"They wouldn't let me help you." Bruce snapped, defensively. "I didn't want you moved here."

"Moved here? Whatever do you mean?" 

"You were at Gotham General for the first month or so and...I had some experts evaluate you, but they had very little hope you would...improve," Bruce murmured, head bent forward. "Gordon insisted on moving you here and I had no recourse." He looked up and met J's gaze. "The warden called Alfred a year later when I was abroad, and told him you'd opened your eyes. You opened your eyes but...nothing."

Bruce stood up and paced away, trying to hide how much sharing this affected him. When he'd gotten himself under control again, he returned to his seat. "Look, when I spoke to her she said you hadn't improved in any other way and that there was no reason for me to come home. She would call again when things changed. But she never called us again. There was never any improvement, Jeremiah."

J nodded, pensive, before looking away. "Don't call me that, Bruce," he muttered. "That man doesn't exist anymore."

”Yes. Yes, he does, Jeremiah..."

"Bruce, _don't_..."

"How long ago did you regain consciousness, Jeremiah?”

"..."

"I wouldn't know what else to call you. So, answer me. How long ago, _Jeremiah?_ "

”Well," J sighed dramatically, "it’s hard to know in a place like Arkham. The days all blend into each other and there are...”

”How long?!” Bruce hissed angrily.

”Calm down. So, give or take a couple of weeks, three years.”

”Three... _years_?” Bruce's voice rose on the last word, both in octave and volume. "I would have been on the next goddamn plane if I'd known!"

"How was I supposed to know that?" J strained against the leather straps holding him down. "I was alone, Bruce. Alone, disoriented, and with no recollection of who I was or how I came to be here! I had to protect myself until I could figure out what was happening. By the time I did that, I found it easier to play along than to subject myself to whatever awaited me if they knew I was alert. Solitary confinement, psychotropic drugs, electroshock? You know, all the fun that's awaiting me now." He turned his face away, drained.

"I'm sorry." J glanced back at Bruce. "I am. I never wanted any of this for you. I was angry at you back then, but I never wanted you hurt."

Bruce stood up and put the morphine pump back in J's hand from where it had dropped onto the mattress. J turned his wrist under the leather strap and caught Bruce's pinky with his own. The billionaire's breath caught at the contact.

"I know that. I never blamed you for what happened," J said softly. Bruce nodded solemnly.

"Thank you. You need to know, though, I hate - absolutely _hate_ \- what you did tonight. All of it. But I don't hate _you_. I never did." Bruce sighed. "I guess we have a lot to talk about, don't we?" When J laughed, Bruce squeezed their fingers together. "I'm serious."

"You're _always_ serious, Bruce. I wouldn't have you any other way. So, you'll come back?"

"Yeah. I'll come back." He disengaged their fingers and stepped back. "Right now, there's a detective outside that wants to ask you some questions."

"Don't worry. I'll lawyer up."

"Good." Bruce was strangely relieved. "I'll be back when they have you settled in a room."

"Cell, Bruce. A cell. This may be a hospital wing, but there's nothing hospitable about this place. It's an insane asylum."

"I'll be back," Bruce repeated, trying not to think about what might happen after he leaves, "when you're settled. In a day or so, I imagine." He started toward the door.

"Oh, Bruce?" J winked when the Wayne heir turned to look at him. "Welcome home."

"Right." Bruce tried to hide the smile that tugged at his lips. "Well, for what it's worth...welcome _back_ , Jeremiah." 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and related lyrics are from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."

The next time Bruce saw J, he was in Arkham-issued striped shirt and pants. Nevertheless, Bruce breathed easier seeing him actually walking and talking and not holding anyone hostage.

Bruce was seated at the long table in a private visiting room. The warden was glad to made an exception for someone of Wayne's status who _also_ happened to be a regular financial supporter of the asylum. He straightened the collar of his black leather jacket and dropped his hands to his lap so he wouldn't drum his fingers on the table while he waited. After about 10 minutes, a guard opened the door opposite Bruce and tugged the pale, scarred prisoner known as "E001" into the room by his arm. J shrugged him off, glaring at him before turning his attention to his visitor with a delighted smile.

"You have 15 minutes," the guard croaked.

"I believe we have 25," Bruce replied sharply. "Warden Simmons was explicit about that. Check with her if you need to."

"20, then." He made a show of looking at his cheap wristwatch.

"25." Bruce put a white envelope on the table and slid it toward the guard. "Greatly appreciate your support, Mr...." he looked at the man's name badge, "McEwen."

The guard scowled but said nothing, quickly scooping up the envelope and riffling through the bills with a dirty thumbnail before jamming it in his shirt pocket. 

J made his way to the table slowly, shuffling his feet in white canvas slip-ons. His hands were cuffed in front and chained to the heavy leg irons that bound his ankles.

"Bruce," he greeted brightly. "You came." 

"I said I would."

J nodded, still smiling. The guard grudgingly came over and pulled J's chair out so he could sit opposite Bruce. He unchained the tether and anchored J's hands to the tabletop. 

"Does he have to be cuffed to the table?" Bruce asked politely.

"Mr. Wayne, Inmate E001 is a dangerous criminal. The cuffs are for your protection."

"It's alright, Bruce. Let's not waste precious time on such a minor inconvenience. How are you?" He stretched his hands and flexed his fingers in Bruce's direction.

"I'm fine. How are..." For a moment, Bruce was distracted by the slender, pale hands. He blinked and glanced back up to focus on J's dark hazel eyes, which were marginally less bloodshot than the last time he'd seen him. "How have you settled in?" 

"Just peachy, considering. I was served solid food for the first time in a decade. My stomach didn't quite know what to do with it," he giggled, and the guard wrinkled his nose in distaste. "As you might imagine, the results didn't go over well with the other inmates. But for now I'm strictly on liquids since I can at least hold down coffee, tea and broth." 

Bruce's stomach clenched in sympathy. "Surprised they tried giving you foods so quickly."

"I don't think they really gave it much thought, Bruce. I'm just one of the pack now."

Mulling this over, Bruce shifted in his chair and addressed the guard. "May I have a few minutes alone with the prisoner?"

"Mr. Wayne, that's against protocol and..."

Annoyed after having already greased the guard's palm, Bruce rolled his eyes. "Call the warden, then."

The guard scoffed and used the wall phone to dial the security station. After a few unintelligible mumbles, he hung up and barked, "You have 15 minutes," before slamming the door behind him.

"Wow, you've got some pull around here, don't you?"

Bruce got straight to the point. "How are they treating you, really? Have they given you any medications?"

"Ah." J waved the fingers of a cuffed hand. "I see. No, no meds yet. I've had a couple of therapy sessions with two different psychiatrists. When they get around to comparing notes, they'll deduce the best course of action for me, I'm sure. I've been threatened with regression therapy which I truly can't wait to get started on. Sounds like a blast." He paused, smirking. "A blast from the past! Get it?"

Bruce rolled his eyes, suppressing a tiny smile. "Seriously. No one has tried to hurt you, have they, Jeremiah?"

"You know, Bruce, you are the only person I'll let address me with that name. I've told them all to refer to me as E001 in here until I can come up with a better moniker. But, to answer your question, no. They're sometimes a little rough moving me from place to place, you know, but nothing major. Are you worrying about me?" he winked.

"I just want to make sure you're not being mistreated. Probably more than a few staff members feel resentful of being duped all that time."

J sighed. "It's a prison, Bruce. I'll be fine. I'm just...really happy to see you," he murmured. "Can you do me a favor when you visit again?"

Bruce tensed. "What? I'm absolutely not smuggling in any C4."

"C4?" J chuckled. "No, no. I've no need of that at the moment. After all, I already have your attention, don't I? No, I was going to ask if you would, ah, bring me some cosmetics. I don't think they sell any in the commissary." For a moment, J looked tentative and smaller, and Bruce felt a pang of sadness to remember the handsome young man Jeremiah once was.

"You mean, like you had on the other night?"

J's eyes brightened. "Yes. Red lipstick and maybe some white face makeup? Ecco was the one who always bought it for me. I don't even know where she got it or what brand it was. I just...she handled...so many things for me. In the _before_ time and...after."

"We should talk about Ecco at some point."

J narrowed his eyes, demeanor suddenly shifting into something cold and bitter. "We should what now? Talk about Ecco? No. Talk to Barbara Kean about Ecco if you want to know what happened. I'm quite sure the forensics will show that _she_ was the one who dealt the killing blow. All I did was put the girl out of her misery so she didn't bleed out on the club floor. Talk to Kean and the medical examiner." J rapped on the tabletop and started to rise from his chair. "If that's all, I think we're d..."

"Don't," Bruce jumped up and snagged J by one of his wrists, just below the metal cuff. "I didn't mean it like that. I wanted to know how you found her again and how you managed to plan everything, Jeremiah." He gave J's bare wrist a gentle squeeze. "You always say you know me. Well, I know you, too. I know you wouldn't have chosen what happened if there was any other way. I'm not accusing you of anything."

J settled back into his seat, glancing between Bruce's eyes and his hand. "Oh."

Embarrassed, Bruce let go and sat back down. "But we can have that discussion another day. Let's change the subject. What else do you need? Anything to read? A journal?"

"A journal. Why...why does that sound familiar?" J looked over Bruce's shoulder and focused his gaze on a spot of cracked plaster. "That might be useful. Though they probably wouldn't let me use a decent pen or pencil," he remarked, meeting Bruce's gaze. "Weapon, you know. I suppose I could write with a crayon."

"Hmm. Let me see what I can do." Bruce put his palms flat on the table, just inches away from where J was cuffed. "Anything else?"

J stared at Bruce for what seemed like a long time before answering. "Real coffee? A cup of French roast or Hawaiian Kona. Or _anything_ really that's not prison-issue industrial drip brown water. I didn't realize how much I had missed coffee until I tasted Arkham's awful sludge."

Bruce smiled at the imagery. "Yeah, I can't even imagine. I'll be sure to bring you a cup of coffee the next time I visit. I can't promise a specific day or time now that I'm actively seeing to Wayne Enterprises, but I'll try not to let more than a week go by."

"Yes, I know you're quite the busy man, Bruce. What with your daytime endeavors and your nighttime adventures," J winked conspiratorially, "finding time to drop in for a funny farm visit could be a scheduling challenge. I can only hope that crime finds itself in a lull so you have time for me. It will be exceedingly boring here otherwise."

"Jeremiah, listen. I want you to give the doctors a chance. Maybe they can help you in some way..."

The guard reentered the room and gave Bruce and J equally icy glares.

"Help me do what? Become a productive member of society? Bruce, they just want to study me like a bug under a microscope." He looked over at the guard. "I guess Smiley over there is ready to return me to my luxurious accommodations."

The guard shook his head as he moved in to unfasten J's cuffed hands from the table. 

"Yes. Your visit is up, Mr. Wayne." He gestured for J to stand so he could reconnect the chain to the ankle shackles. 

"Take care of yourself, Jeremiah." Bruce stood and watched the guard guide J toward where they had originally entered the room.

"Come again soon, won't you, Bruce?" J asked over his shoulder as neared the door. "I'm sure I'll have some stories to share next time."

 _That's what I'm afraid of,_ Bruce thought as the door closed with a dull thud, separating him from Jeremiah once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to post this update. I'm now settled in my new home after moving from NY to NC, and things are getting back to normal slowly but surely.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> Any directly quoted dialogue appearing from Gotham Season 5, Episode 7 "Ace Chemicals" belongs to Warner Bros. Television, Primrose Hill Productions, and DC Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

_"Jeremiah, you don't have to do this."_

_"But I...I do. I came to this realization. I realized that no matter what I did to bond us, some random gunman in an alley would be the man who you were tied to the most. The man you saw when you closed your eyes. I want to be the star of the show! So if I can't have you as a brother bonded by love, then we'll just have to be bonded by hatred."_

_"Jeremiah! This ends. Tonight."_

_"No. No, Bruce. Now it begins."_

_"Yes! You feel it. The connection between us. Yes, you do. Tell me you feel it!"_

_"You mean nothing to me."_

_"Why don't you understand? You need me! I'm the answer to your life's question! Without me, you're just a joke...without a punchline."_

***

Bruce bolted awake in the darkness, sweat cooling on his brow and soaking his sheets. He looked around in alarm, heart racing and fingers clenching into fists. He swallowed around the sob that threatened to burst out of his lungs and covered his face with his hands.

Just like he had every night for the last ten years.

He thought it would stop when he saw Jeremiah Valeska again at Ace Chemicals; after Barbara Lee Gordon was rescued and Jeremiah was safely back in Arkham. Still, the memory returned.

Bruce could hear Jeremiah begging him to understand, felt him grabbing his face and shaking him at the railing, staring at him so intently that Bruce thought Jeremiah was going to kiss him. Instead he was punched repeatedly until Bruce ducked out of the way and Jeremiah plummeted down, down, down into the murky green depths of the chemical vat that would scar him forever; scar _both_ of them forever.

When Bruce left Gotham and spent a decade training in all manner of martial arts, he lived an ascetic, solitary life to achieve a self-discipline that most people could never even imagine. He was always enviably in control.

Except when he slept.

Funny that Jeremiah had no idea that one of his wishes had come true. He was indeed the man Bruce saw when he closed his eyes. In fact, Bruce couldn't remember the last time he slept well. Perhaps it had been when he worked in Jeremiah's bunker building the clean energy generator prototype that eventually spawned the bombs that brought down the city's bridges.

No matter what had happened between them, he couldn't get Jeremiah out of his head. During the period that they worked side by side, the two had drawn closer than Bruce imagined even brothers would. For the first time, Bruce truly felt _seen_. Jeremiah felt it too; of that there was no doubt. Bruce would have gone so far as to say he'd _loved_ Jeremiah. 

And then it all fell apart. Whatever toxin Jerome had sprayed him with, Jeremiah slowly changed day by day; grappling with paranoia and delusions of grandeur. His brilliance became dangerous, obsessive, and cruel. Bruce's closest friend had lost his mind, spiraling into a psychosis that drove him to do destructive, unconscionable things. What was even worse, he did these destructive things _for_ Bruce.

Even now, though, Bruce didn't blame Jeremiah for any of it. He was ill and needed help. He convinced himself that there was a way to fix things; there _had_ to be. 

With Jeremiah fully conscious and just across the river at Arkham, Bruce had the urge to check up on him constantly. The billionaire couldn't go a day without feeling the magnetic pull of his former friend. Bruce wasn't able to see him daily, of course. He didn't have that kind of time, especially now that he was actively managing projects at Wayne Enterprises. But he did call Warden Simmons several times a week to ask about Jeremiah's welfare, request permission to bring items from the outside to Jeremiah (the coffee had been fine, the cosmetics were borderline - if Jeremiah acted up while using any of the makeup, it would be taken away), and offer to bring in specialists to assess Jeremiah's psychological state. The warden was very flexible with Bruce except for that last suggestion. She was adamant that the asylum was more than adequately equipped to treat the inmates' particular conditions, and wouldn't hear of bringing outsiders in to evaluate anyone's mental illnesses. Bruce would have to be satisfied that Arkham was doing the right thing - for Jeremiah and all of the patients under its roof.

***

"Hey Bomber Boy! Time for your head shrinking session," the short, gray haired guard called as he drew his baton over the bars of Jeremiah's cell door.

"Must you shout so, Mr. Phillips?" J murmured from his cot. "One thing I'm not suffering from is hearing loss. Is it 3 PM already?"

"Nope, it's 1:25. They moved your session up. Lucky you!"

J wasn't manacled, but the guards always handcuffed him for his trips to the therapy rooms on the second floor.

He rubbed his wrists together and sank into the hard plastic seat. The door on the far side of the room opened, and in stepped one of the two doctors J had been assigned. 

"Dr. Reese," he acknowledged, jangling the chains.

"Hello E001, how are you today?"

"I'm fantastic. Took a stroll in the park this morning, went shopping for organic groceries, stopped at an art gallery to admire the latest installation. You?"

"Is sarcasm always your first defense?" she asked, perching a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses on her nose as she took her own seat opposite the inmate. "Or is it just a special treat for your favorite doctors?"

"Sarcasm is a very sophisticated form of humor, you know," J said casually, firmly meeting Dr. Reese's gaze. "I've always been fond of expressing myself as cleverly as possible within the context of a given situation."

"So I should be flattered that you'd address me with such advanced conversational skills."

"Something like that," he smirked as he raised the right side of his hairless brow bone. The doctor recognized that the gesture would have once been the amused arching of an eyebrow.

"How has the medication been making you feel?"

"Tired, mostly. No remarkable changes in my psyche, if that's what you mean. The pills haven't made me happy, sad, anxious, angry, agitated, or any other stereotypical emotion. Just bored."

"Hmm." She made a notation and then looked more carefully at her patient. "You're already up to 300 mg a day, I may need to change the prescription to something else."

J shrugged, examining his fingernails.

"You've been going to twice daily therapy for ten days. One session with me," she said, looking over her notes, "and one with Dr. Huckabee."

"I'm aware. Your point?"

"Neither Dr. Huckabee nor I are getting anywhere with you, are we?"

"I suppose that depends on what you're trying to accomplish. I've already told both of you, I'm not interested in dredging up the past. I don't want discuss how mommy smoked or drank battery acid or did _whatever_ during pregnancy to cause my less-than-ideal temperament. I'm not insane and I don't want anyone's help."

"You're not interested in dredging up the past, or you can't _remember_ it? You've already admitted there's a huge chunk of your childhood missing from your memory. Your accident and coma resulted in transient amnesia and you seem to have selective..."

"It. Doesn't. Matter!" J sniped, throwing his arms up. "Don't you understand? If I can't remember it, it can't be important." _I remember Bruce, and that's all that ever mattered._

Dr. Reese put down her pen and watched J with narrowed eyes. 

"Look, we've played along with you, Mr. Valeska," and the doctor held up her hand when J bristled and tried to correct her, "even addressing you as E001 at these sessions as you requested. But you don't give us anything in return. We don't know how you orchestrated the bombing and kidnapping and breakout..."

"Why would I incriminate myself? That would be foolish." 

"...we don't know why you tried to demolish Gotham almost 11 years ago..."

J made an impatient sound in the back of his throat.

"...and you won't acknowledge how your dysfunctional family, especially your brother, influenced you!"

He froze.

"B-brother?"

"I mean, your childhood and whether or not you had siblings..."

"NO. You said BROTHER." J pushed his chair back so the metal frame scraped loudly on the tile floor. "I told you, I don't remember much of my life at all before I met Bruce Wayne. What does it matter if I had a brother or a sister or a talking llama?" A hysterical giggle bubbled out of him and he briefly slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Mr. Valesk..."

"Don't CALL me that!"

"Why not? Why do you hate your name so much?"

"I don't _hate_ it," he argued, shaking his head. "It just doesn't feel like ME. I've been reborn, don't you see? Back from the dead, in my own way. The fact that I've retained much of my intellect should be what you and Huckabee care about. You should be focused on appreciating my intelligence rather than digging through cobwebs to figure out my past. In fact, I'd wager I have more than one past, woudn't you say?"

Dr. Reese extended her chin, encouraging him to go on.

"Well, think about it. I had a childhood, even if pieces of it are missing. At adulthood I became an engineer. Then after my...awakening, I built bombs to remake Gotham City, although things didn't go quite as planned. Then..." he faltered a little, losing the point he had planned to make, "I did something else. I, ah...helped my dearest friend conquer his fears?" He took a breath. "Yes. Then, after my accident, I was comatose, then catatonic, and now I'm _not_. Which one of these is the real me? Take your pick! I rather like who I am now. It shows resilience. I'm a survivor. Why can't you just let me move forward from here?"

"Among your diagnoses, Mr. Valeska, are anti-social personality disorder and post-traumatic stress. Your environment may have more of an effect on you than you think. Learning about your formative years may shed light on why someone with a genius IQ like yourself developed such a propensity for violence. So, you could say it's my job to help you piece your life back together." She took a deep breath. "Now what's this _awakening_ you referred to?"

J shook his head, his eyes cold. "I don't want your help. I'm already locked up, so just leave me be." 

A knock on the door interrupted the session and J bounded to his feet. "Time's up, doc. Better luck next time." He extended his cuffed hands to the guard and was led out of the room while Reese pinched the bridge of her nose. She summarized the session and added a note for the other psychiatrist.

_"As oral medication has not been effective on the patient, I'm introducing injectables this afternoon."_


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Third Eye Blind song, "How's It Going To Be."
> 
> I'm not a doctor, and I don't have any first hand experience in mental illness beyond my own major depression diagnosis. 
> 
> Trigger warning: AsPD is the medical abbreviation for anti-social personality disorder, and the drugs mentioned in this chapter do exist - but I'm making up Jeremiah's diagnoses and treatment. If you have adverse reaction to names of particular medications, please skip the first section.

"Carbamazepine."

"Do you think so?" Dr. Carl Huckabee asked the bespectacled female psychiatrist that sat across from him.

"I know it's also been used for bipolar disorder, but he's not responded to any of the oral neuroleptics we administered. I don't think continuing anti-depressants would be useful either," Dr. Reese explained. "He refuses to willingly participate in regression therapy, so I think we need a more powerful pharmalogical intervention to calm his overactive mind. He might be able to effectively reflect on his past if he's not in a constant state of manic agitation."

"Well, I wouldn't rule out other types of anti-depressants just because the quetiapine didn't work. Maybe a selective seratonin reuptake inhibitor could more appropriately suppress his anger and aggression. We should consider something like duloxetine. Do we know that he's actually been taking the meds?"

"I thought of that, but his blood samples showed the appropriate amounts. I also spoke with three different residents in the ward and they checked his cheeks, gums, and under the tongue. He's almost certainly been taking them regularly."

"Hmm. Well, you're not wrong about CBZ having been effective in _some_ patients with AsPD. It doesn't adversely affect memory, in the short-term at least. It's not like anyone will fault us if he doesn't respond well to it right away," Huckabee chuckled. 

"Carl, be nice," Donna Reese smirked. "It's not that I _want_ to torture him. He's just so goddamn uncooperative. It gets tiresome."

"Just be prepared. The course of CBZ treatment you're proposing is going to make him feel pretty fucking sick before it actually starts to take effect."

"He's in an insane asylum, not a country club," Reese countered. "Let's see how it goes. Adding CBZ suspension to the Haloperidol Decanoate Vial you want to prescribe should help with both his aggression and desire to hurt others."

"Wait, has he expressed a desire to hurt someone in particular?" Huckabee asked, alarmed that he hadn't picked up on that. "Did he threaten you?"

"No, no. It's just...well, you're aware of his history. Commissioner Gordon classifies Valeska as a mass murderer for his part in the Gotham City Crisis. He's suspected in those recent warehouse murders, whether he committed them personally or orchestrated them. I think it's safe to say he's, well, dangerous." Reese shrugged. "I'm looking to keep him quiet and calm so that he'll have no choice but to cooperate with us."

***

"Come on in, Mr. Wayne." Warden Simmons extended her hand and Bruce shook it firmly.

"Thank you, Warden. I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule. I won't take up much of your time." Bruce sat in the upholstered visitor chair while Simmons took the seat behind her desk.

"What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if, now that a couple of weeks have gone by without incident, you might allow me to visit with Jeremiah without the need for him to be handcuffed."

Warden Simmons' eyebrows climbed her forehead in surprise. "Why would you want that? The handcuffs are for your protection."

"He's not going to hurt me," Bruce said solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm reasonably certain he's not interested in assaulting me." At the warden's continued skeptical look, Bruce leaned forward. "Look, he's committed very specific crimes and his motive has always been to get my attention. He has my attention now, and that eliminates much of the danger."

"No. What would Commissioner Gordon say if I just let one of our most notorious inmates loose in a conference room."

"I'm not suggesting you 'let him loose,' warden. He'll still have on his leg irons. I...I just don't like seeing him treated like an animal. It doesn't help his recovery, does it?"

"Mr. Wayne," she sighed, "Jeremiah Valeska is a long way from recovery." She looked over the recent therapy report from Dr. Donna Reese, which indicated Jeremiah's current state of mind, general temperament, and medication dosages. "One hand."

"What?" 

"He can have one hand free. His non-dominant hand can be uncuffed. Will that work?"

"Yes," Bruce smiled. "Yes, I appreciate that. He hasn't been acting up, has he?"

"No. He's been rather docile since they started him on his new protocol last week. You can judge for yourself. Give me a call later and let me know what you think."

"I will. Thank you." Bruce stood and the two shook hands once again before Bruce headed back downstairs for his fourth visit with Jeremiah.

***

When Bruce had paid his third visit to Jeremiah a week ago, he had again brought coffee: this time, a thermos of Cubano dark roast (black, two sugars) that Jeremiah described as "delightfully nuanced." Jeremiah had commented that he had been feeling a bit tired and chalked it up to his medication. He'd been sleeping well, but for longer than he would have liked. "Not that there's much to do around here anyway," he'd joked, winking at Bruce and smiling happily in his full face of makeup and newly acquired dark mauve lipstick. Bruce had gone to Sephora to pick up a full-coverage foundation - not clown-white but suitably pale - a charcoal eyeshadow and several lipsticks. He had presented Jeremiah with the cosmetics during their second visit, explaining that his use of the makeup would be tightly controlled and subject to confiscation if he didn't behave as a model patient. Jeremiah had beamed like a child at Christmas, and assured Bruce he would wear it sparingly. (Bruce suspected he'd only wear it for their visits. He wasn't wrong.)

Today Bruce hadn't had an opportunity to pick up good coffee, but he chanced bringing along two of Alfred's freshly baked Snickerdoodle cookies. (Needless to say, Alfred was unaware Jeremiah Valeska was a recipient of his baking.) He also picked up a vintage edition of the Structural Engineering Reference Manual to see if it might help keep Jeremiah's attention. 

After the conference room door opened, J moved gingerly to the table and gave Bruce a shy smile.

"Hi, Jeremiah."

"Good to see you again, Bruce."

As the guard proceeded to lock the tether to the table, Bruce interrupted him. "Please call the warden. There's an exception this week." After doing just that, the guard reluctantly came back and uncuffed Jeremiah's left wrist. 

"It's your funeral, buddy," he murmured as he left the room.

J stared at Bruce with a look of wonder. 

"How'd you manage that?"

"I have my ways."

"Perhaps, the better question," J continued, tapping the palm of his free hand on the table, "is _why_. Why would you do that?"

Bruce shrugged. "I was tired of seeing you chained up like a pit bull. I also thought that if you had at least one hand free, we might be able to play a game next time. Poker. Backgammon. Chess..." 

"Chess." J's eyes brightened at the thought. "Oh, it's been a long time since I played chess, Bruce. I don't remember the rules."

"They'll come back to you."

"Maybe. But they'll never let you stay long enough for a full match," J lamented.

"No. But I can take a picture of the board and we can set it up the same way at the following visit." Bruce was rewarded with a genuine smile and it was then the billionaire realized something was different.

"You're not wearing your face makeup this week."

"No," J murmured, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "I haven't been feeling well. I couldn't really muster enough energy to do more than put on a bit of lipstick when I heard you were coming. I apologize if I look unkempt."

"What do you mean you're not feeling well? Can they give you something for it?" Bruce reached across and took J's hand in his own before he realized he was doing it. They both stared at their joined hands but neither dared comment on it.

"I don't know if the warden told you. I'm on new medication. The pills weren't working so they're giving me an intravenous cocktail. Not sure if it's doing what it's meant to, but I've had some unpleasant side effects." At Bruce's concerned expression, J quickly elaborated. "Just headaches, nausea, dizziness. Typical symptoms when your body detects something out of the ordinary. I'm told I'll adjust after about 10 days."

"Ten days? That seems like a long time to suffer side effects. How's your sleeping?"

"Same or better, I guess. I find myself getting drowsy by 8 pm, and I sleep until 8 the next morning."

Bruce thought 12 hours seemed like a long time to sleep, but then again, he'd never had to take psych drugs. 

"I almost forgot, I brought you some light reading." He let go of J's hand and dug the text book out of his leather backpack, laying it on the table within the other man's reach.

"Bruce, that's...thank you," J said with a sincerity that Bruce knew couldn't be fake. "I'll start reading it this afternoon. I'm sick of the magazines and cozy mysteries they bring around on the book cart." 

Bruce pulled out the paper bag of cookies next and passed them across to J. The other man opened the bag and smiled when he caught a whiff of the buttery-cinnamon scent. 

"Mr. Pennyworth know you brought me these?"

"Oh, gods no. He'd rather set my car on fire than to think his snickerdoodles were going to Arkham," the billionaire chuckled.

The guard rapped on the door to signal their time was up before he entered and hovered near the table.

"I guess that's it for this week. I'm sorry you're not feeling well, Jeremiah. Do me a favor?" J nodded and Bruce continued. "If it doesn't seem to get any better, promise me you'll let the doctors know? At some point it should taper off. If you've been on the new protocol since last week, the 10 day mark should be coming up in a few days, right?"

"Of course. I'll keep them informed." The guard unlocked the tether and tugged J to his feet. Swaying to maintain his balance, J closed his eyes briefly and Bruce watched him swallow a few times as if trying to fend off a wave of nausea. After he opened his eyes again, he took up the text book and paper bag and gave Bruce a tired smile. "Thanks for coming by, Bruce. It's always a treat to see you."

"I'll be back in a few days, Jeremiah. Remember, I'm going to challenge you to a chess match soon."

J chuckled. "It's a date, then. Until next time." He carefully made his way to the door and gave Bruce one last look over his shoulder before the door closed behind him.

Bruce made a mental note to ask for the names of the drugs being administered to Jeremiah the next time he called the warden. 


	24. Chapter 24

J lay on the sofa in Dr. Huckabee's office, no longer handcuffed or manacled. He was as docile as a kitten after 12 days on his new medication. Docile wasn't even the word for it; he was almost weak, in fact.

"I want us to go back in time. To your _accident_."

J made brief eye contact with the psychiatrist and then shook his head.

He had been extremely resistant to therapy from the start and no matter what techniques were used, the doctor could not induce a trance state. The doctor's frustration only made J laugh, mocking him for not being able to break through J's will. However, as the new medication protocol started to influence him, the therapy sessions became a little more agreeable. He wasn't yet susceptible to the power of suggestion or meditation, but had started to open up about his time in Arkham before the breakout - the period when he had first regained consciousness and realized where he was. How he had wanted to rejoin the world but needed to pretend he was still catatonic. How he'd needed everything to be just _perfect_ before he made his debut to see Bruce Wayne again.

"I didn't remember it when I first woke up. When I was able to read my patient chart, it referred to an 'accident'. Was a long while before I could see little pieces of it. Then I got glimpses of running through wet streets. I was...with him." He took a deep breath and the doctor noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I'd remembered _him_ before I'd known anything about myself. I saw his eyes in my mind, our remarkable connection. Anyway," he sighed, catching his breath as if he'd been exerting himself, "we had...Bruce and I, we were talking. In an alley, I think; I remembered it being...exhilarating. Others were there but I had his complete attention. All of his focus. This was it. He would finally understand me. But something went wrong." J paused here, closing his eyes and concentrating hard. "We...struggled. In the alley. I broke free, ran through the streets to a building. We struggled again and he knocked a switchblade out of my hand. The switchblade was familiar - something I could actually associate in my mind's eye with my previous self. Rather than appreciate what I'd done for him..."

"Done for him?" Huckabee interrupted gently. "What had you done for him."

J scowled. "I can't remember that part. But Bruce...he was furious. He hurled ugly words when his fists didn't phase me. I can't recall the exact words but I know he meant them to devastate me - the look on his face, so stubborn. I remember us nose to nose, both angry now. I was punching him, pleading with him for something. I wish I could fully remember the context. He looked exhausted. Then I was falling. I thought I hit solid ground. But it wasn't solid. It swallowed me up like lava." 

"That's a very detailed memory. That's good work. Can you remember where you and Bruce were and what you fell into?"

"All I could see was green; a green sea glowing around me. Burning. Sucking me down into a bubbling cauldron. Then nothing. Ecco told me...she said it was Ace.." J was sweating profusely, and his voice suddenly sounded different. Sluggish. Thick. The word "Ace" came out like 'eightsss'.

"A vat of...chemicalsss..." he hissed, sadly. "They did thisss to me," he lamented, gesturing to his face.

Huckabee felt J's forehead and frowned, rereading the last entry in the patient file.

"E001, can I see your arm please?" When J shrugged, Huckabee took hold of his left wrist and looked at the most recent injection sites at the crook of his elbow. It was only after he pulled J's sleeve further up that he noticed beyond the usual bruising at the needle entry points there was significant inflammation in the soft tissue of his bicep.

With J still complaining of nausea, headache and dizziness from the meds, it didn't occur to anyone that he might have developed an infection. But the extreme sweating, heavy breathing and slurred speech spelled trouble.

"Why were you fighting with Wayne?" Huckabee asked absently, backing up to press the call button on his desk to summon an orderly. "I thought you told me he was your best friend." When the call connection was acknowledged, Huckabee discreetly asked to have a medic and transport sent up.

J balled up his fists. "I wanted him to _admit_ it."

"Admit?"

"That he needed me. That we were meant to be."

"Be?"

J growled in frustration. "Usss. We were supposed to be... _brothersss_. I tried so hard. If he couldn't love me..." For the first time since he'd begun therapy, tears leaked out of J's eyes but he didn't seem to notice. "I'd make him h-hate me," he murmured. "S'long as he didn't f-forget m-me."

When the medic arrived minutes later with a wheelchair, J's fever was raging and he had blacked out. 

***

Bruce was in the library in rebuilt Wayne Manor when the phone rang. He checked the clock on the mantle; it was 7:30 pm.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry to call so late."

"What's happened, Warden?" Bruce asked, heart racing as sank into his chair and put his mobile on speaker. "Did Jeremiah do something?"

"Oh, no. It's nothing like that. But knowing that you want to be kept informed, waiting until tomorrow to call seemed inconsiderate." Warden Simmons paused. "I was just advised that Mr. Valeska has developed an infection. Antibiotics have been administered and he's being kept comfortable in the infirmary."

"Infection?" Bruce rolled a chess piece, a white knight, between his palms just to have something to do. He'd bought a portable chess set to bring the next time he saw Jeremiah. "Viral or bacterial?"

"Seems to be bacterial, possibly from one of his injection sites. Any symptoms he exhibited resembled the side effects of his medication, but his psychiatrist noted a change in demeanor today that alerted him to Mr. Valeska's condition." She didn't tell him that Jeremiah likely had had the infection for a few days and that he'd lost consciousness when his fever climbed to 104F that afternoon. "I didn't want you to stop in for a visit only to be turned away. We'll be keeping Mr. Valeska in the infirmary for a few days observation." 

"Is he responding to the antibiotics?" 

"Mmm hmm. It's nothing we can't take care of. I'll keep you apprised."

She kept quiet about the steroids they were also administering to battle the infection. She didn't mention that J had developed sepsis when his body tried to fight the infection on its own; that he was dangerously ill and might not survive the night. What would be the point?

"I appreciate the call, Warden." He put the knight down with a sigh as he disconnected. Distractedly, he turned away to get dressed for his nightly patrol and almost missed the quiet rustling at the window.

"Were you ever planning to tell me?"

Bruce rolled his shoulders and sighed again but didn't turn around. "Tell you what, Selina?"

"That you've been visiting that murderous lunatic since he woke up? I can't...I mean, you've only seen me once since coming back to town...well, twice if we count the night you were wearing that vigilante getup...and yet you've been to Arkham _and_ you get personal updates from the warden on his health? It's like ten years ago all over again, Bruce. Your priority always circles back to Jeremiah Valeska."

"My priority--" Bruce yelled, facing Selina now, "is keeping Gotham safe! And she's not safe with Jeremiah awake! I visit him to keep him from breaking out and wreaking havoc on this city again to get my attention!"

"Liar." She swung her leg over the ledge but made no attempt to enter the room. "You visit him because you can't let go."

Bruce didn't respond.

She sighed. "He was never your responsibility. But you based your life choices around him even before he fell in that vat."

"Everything that happened was my fault, Selina. His fall, building the bombs, as far back as Jerome getting to him and driving him mad...how can you say he's _not_ my responsibility?"

"You paid to keep him alive all those years you were gone," she murmured, and Bruce's eyes widened in surprise. "You think I didn't figure it out? Please. He should have been dead from infection weeks after Ace Chemicals. It wasn't luck or a strong constitution. It had to be the almighty Wayne dollar keeping him on life support. And now that he's awake...that snake has manipulated you into the relationship you originally resisted. Why don't you see it?" 

"He should have a chance to get better, Selina. With therapy and medication, maybe he can rejoin society someday. Do you forget that he was a brilliant engineer? He could contribute so much."

"Whatever. It's your neck."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Bruce finally thought to ask. Ironic that of all times for Selina to just "drop in" on him, Bruce had the Arkham warden on speakerphone. But Selina had already begun her retreat along the side of the manor to slip off into the night.

***

When inmate E001 began hallucinating, induced by a high fever and massive doses of antibiotics and steroids conflicting with his medication, the nurse on staff immediately called the psychiatrist on his chart. Dr. Huckabee was already off duty, so Donna Reese was the one who checked in. 

J had been tossing and turning in bed, murmuring. When Reese arrived, he'd begun raising his hands, palms out as if to ward off an attack.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Just the last few minutes, Doctor," the nurse whispered. "I was in here cleaning up and monitoring his vitals when he started moaning. Next thing I know, he yelled 'stop' and then it sounded like he was begging someone to leave him alone."

"Fascinating. So, if we induce the hallucinations, he might recall his past?" Reese wondered aloud, looking over his chart. "You can go, nurse. I'll handle this." The nurse nodded, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the laminate floor as she exited the room.

"Leave me alone," the patient pleaded again.

Reese approached the bed and leaned into J's space. "No. I won't leave you alone. Why should I?" Reese asked loudly, pen poised to take notes at his reaction.

The new voice seemed to startle the man in the bed. His forehead creased in confusion. 

_Jeremiah was standing outside a dilapidated trailer on a muddy fairground. He had his arms wrapped around himself as if he was cold. His glasses were on the ground, frames bent. His jaw was bruised and he had a searing pain in his side but he was frozen to the spot. He knew from experience he couldn't outrun his opponent._

"Why should I leave you alone?" Reese repeated, her voice taking on a hint of impatience. "Answer me."

"Someday I'll leave," J muttered, "you'll be sorry."

"Leave?" Reese scoffed, still in that firm, threatening tone. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

_"Gonna leave me, broski? You're not going anywhere, are you?" Jeremiah didn't even duck as the fist slammed against his left eye. He hit the ground in a heap as his opponent cackled with glee. "You need to toughen up, Miah. Jeez, sometimes you make it too easy." The other boy bent over and slung the unconscious body over his shoulder, frighteningly strong for a ten year old. "It's so much more fun when you fight me instead of whining like a damn girl," he complained good-naturedly, hefting the body into the trailer and beyond to their shared bedroom._

Not getting the response she wanted, Reese leaned in and, protocol be damned, slapped J in the face. Shocked, he struggled for breath but didn't regain consciousness.

_The stronger boy straddled Jeremiah where he lay prone on their bed. "C'mon, Miah. Stop playin' possum. You're gonna get it one way or the other. Might as well enjoy it!" When he didn't get the response he wanted, he slapped Jeremiah in the face. Jeremiah gasped in shock and blinked owlishly until his eyes focused on his twin brother._

Patient E001's heart rate climbed over 100 bpm.

"I asked you a question, _Jeremiah_ ," the doctor barked in a threatening voice. "Answer me!"

J shrank back against the pillow. "Stop, please..."

"Stop what?" Reese asked. "Tell me. Stop what?"

"Oh God," J murmured, recoiling. "Please, don't..."

_"Why can't you just stop, please?"_

_"Stop? This is how we play, baby brother!"_

_"Oh God, please, don't Jay... Just...please not tonight?"_

_"Don't? You know you love it. Stop being a little bitch and open up that pretty mouth for me."_

"CLEAR!"

With Patient E001 experiencing a severe tachycardia episode, Dr. Reese had had no choice but to hit the panic button to summon a nurse and start defibrillation. After the first shock, the nurse administered oxygen to help the patient breathe easier. The heart monitor still showed disrupted electrical impulses and Reese used the paddles a second time. After three shocks, normal heart rhythm was restored. 

The nurse picked up J's chart to record their actions and the doctor wearily took a seat next to the bed. She watched as the patient's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His brow, however, remained creased in distress.

The oxygen mask conveniently hid much of the hand print on his cheek. 


	25. Chapter 25

The soupy fog in J's mind cleared and he swore he was looking at...himself. Right there, across the room. But it had been so long since he had more than a few strands of hair - and he didn't think his hair had ever been that red. More puzzling was the way his face looked. He'd looked in the mirror numerous times since his recapture and he'd decided his mottled features resembled a burn victim's. But this version of himself, the redheaded version sauntering towards him in white Doc Martens and a peculiar cutaway coat, had suture scars around the perimeter of his face, his eyes, and his mouth. The mouth was set in a permanent rictus. J couldn't remember ever smiling that widely.

"Of course I'm not you, ya idiot! Jesus, can't you remember a goddamn thing? All things considered, I guess it's just swell that you forgot all the shit you did to me. But shouldn't the head shrinking sessions have brought back _some_ of your childhood memories? What's it called, regrets therapy?" The redheaded visitor let out a raucous cackle.

"Regression therapy," J replied absently. "Not regrets. Regression." Intellectually he understood he was still unconscious and in his hospital bed, yet somehow he rose and padded to the center of the room. "You." He pointed accusingly at the ghostly visitor. "You're the one I dreamed about."

“I’d say if you’re dreaming about me,” the visitor smirked, “some doctor must've stirred up your legendary inferiority complex."

"Who _are_ you? And why do you look like me?" J paused, then waved a hand dismissively in the vision's direction. "Well, except for those tacky clothes."

"Ho! That's rich," the redhead scoffed. "You can't mock my threads when you have a penchant for red lipstick and purple overcoats. I mean, what even is that?" 

"How did you...never mind. If you're not me, I demand you tell me who you are and why I'm dreaming about you." J stalked up to the other man, trying to look intimidating but not quite managing it. Blue terry socks and a mint green hospital gown that barely covered his freckled thighs were hardly menacing.

"Aw. I'm hurt you don't recognize me, broski. Name's Jerome.” The ghost’s green eyes glittered dangerously. "And that dream you just had? The one you had while the doctors were tryin’ to keep your traitorous heart beating? That so-called dream was just one more of your twisted fictions. I never laid a hand on you. But you were always good at making up stories, weren't you?" Jerome cocked an eyebrow. "Guess it must've been hard being the less fabulous twin."

"Twin?" J backed up, palms out in a warding-off gesture. "I don't have a twin..."

"No, of course you don't, dipshit. Not anymore. I'm dead. But the fact that you're talking to me might mean you're getting ready to join me in the afterlife. Look over there." Jerome pointed past the bed. The door to J's hospital room had vanished and been replaced by a long, darkly lit corridor shrouded in silvery mist. In the distance was a light like an oncoming train's headlamp.

"What? No." He shook his head. "I'm...I'm not ready." J's back hit the wall and he slid to a seating position on the floor.

"Oh, hey. That's gotta be cold, what with no underw..."

"Shhh! I need to think." J laid a palm on his forehead. "It can't be time.”

Jerome giggled. "Go ahead, brain boy, think about it all you like. I’ll just cop a squat over here, okay? Watch from the bleachers as the pieces start to fall into place." He boosted himself onto the sink counter and shuffled packaged cotton-tipped applicators aimlessly between his gloved hands. The white gloves were stained with long-dried blood. 

J stayed seated on the tile floor, long legs stretched out in front of him. He searched his memories; those haphazard pieces that never seemed to fit quite right again after his catatonic state. He looked over at his doppleganger ( _no, your twin brother_ , his expanding mind helpfully supplied) and stared curiously into the other man's hazel-green eyes.

“Whatcha starin' at? I know I'm pretty, but ease up. You'll make me blush," Jerome laughed, but with little humor behind his smile. He could see that J was trying to remember. Really trying. 

Loose threads of J’s remaining sanity pulled together to construct a patchwork of names, faces and events that moved across his mind in a blur. His dark eyes squeezed shut and he cradled his face in his hands. He sat like that for so long, Jerome had begun to suspect his twin was asleep or just flat-out ignoring him. 

After an interminable period of silence, J blinked open his eyes and stared again at Jerome’s pale, scarred face.

"I truly hadn't remembered you, Jerome.” J's voice was a quiet, even monotone.

“Ya don’t say, junior,” the redhead deadpanned.

"Not sure you qualify as the more _fabulous_ of the two of us," J continued solemnly, ignoring his brother's retort, "but it's true, Isn't it? You are, in fact, my older twin. You were born a few minutes before me. Mother always said you... _ruined_ her. And that I..." J grimaced at the vulgarity of the memory, "slipped right out behind you.”

"Yep. You were always behind me. Always in my shadow. Seemed to like it there, too."

Jerome thought back to their childhood, he and his baby brother Jeremiah all but inseparable. Jerome full of life and laughter, the extrovert of the two. Jeremiah had been the quiet one; a self-conscious, studious boy who shrank from his own shadow.

"I hadn't been able to evoke any memories of childhood since my accident." J was very still, seated on the floor, straightbacked against the wall.

"Oh, yeah. Tough break, that accident. Yeesh, getting all melty from those chemicals. You look worse than me now!" Jerome giggled.

J slapped a palm against the tiled floor. "Listen to me. Even before that I hadn’t _wanted_ to think about you. Since your death I blocked you out. Removed you from my history as though you never existed.”

"Hmm. Excised me like a cancer, eh?" Jerome shrugged. "Not surprised. You were always jealous and paranoid. But even so, you, my darling baby brother, had me wrapped around your finger. I protected you against bullies, took the brunt of Mom's drunken punishments, even the beatings from Uncle Zack and Mom's revolving door of boyfriends. But I always protected you." Jerome shook his head. "You were my best friend, Miah. I loved you."

"Why do you call me that?" J said tonelessly. "Miah, I mean."

"It's the nickname I gave ya when we were kids. It was easier to say when we were little, and you seemed to like it well enough." Jerome crossed his arms. "Why do you want people to call you Jay? That was the nickname you gave _me._ Guess you missed me more than you thought, huh?"

"N-no," J stuttered, "that's...that's not it. I didn't want to be called Jeremiah. I didn't remember it and I didn't think it suited me. J - the initial J - seemed like a good place to start. I hadn't spent a lot of time coming up with a better name." But J looked suddenly lost. Had he unconsciously tapped into his memories of his brother? Why would he have? 

"Uh huh. Sounds like hero worship to me. Whatever. The thing I still can't figure out, could never figure out, was why you turned against me." Jerome leaned his head against the wall behind the sink. "We were inseparable, you and me. I loved you. So. Damn. Much. Then you stabbed me in the back. I still don't know why. Why'd ya do it, brother?"

J shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't...see...all of that. My memories can be," he looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap, "somewhat random."

"Random access memory. How convenient." Jerome slapped his gloved hands on his thighs. "I guess I'll just have to wait until you walk down that hallway to get the answers to my questions. Well, come on then. We ain't got all day. Well, actually, I guess we do!" He let out a guffaw that made J grimace. "C'mon. Eternity awaits!"

"I don't want to go," J complained, putting his hands out against the floor for leverage as he pushed up from his sitting position.

"Oh, dude! Cover that shit up. I know we're twins, but I ain't gotta look at yer junk. Fuck." 

J rolled his eyes and primly smoothed his gown. "Just be quiet, Jerome. This is serious. I'm not leaving here now. I have more to do."

"See, no. You don't have a choice here, bro. The grim reaper has come a knocking, and I'm the escort. Let's get a move on."

"I need to stay." J began to walk closer to where Jerome sat, punctuating his words with his hands. "I can't go. Not yet. Bruce needs me."

"Bruce?" Jerome's eyes went comically wide. "You've got to be fucking kidding. The little rich boy that dresses up like a bat? How'd he come up with that gimmick, anyway?" Jerome hopped off the counter. "Not as weird as your sartorial choices, but still..."

"Why am I even talking to you? You're just a figment of my imagination," J sighed.

"Not true, bub. That tunnel over there," Jerome gestured again to the door with a thumb over his shoulder, "is the realest thing about this situation. I'm not alive, that's true. But I'm no imaginary playmate either. I'm here to usher you to the other side. Sorry if you were expecting a brass band to lead the way."

"Have you seen Ecco?" J asked suddenly, standing only a few inches away from his brother now. "I mean, have you met her where you are?"

"Yeah, I know her." Jerome looked uncomfortable. "She worships you, you know. Even now. She's looking forward to seeing your sorry ass again."

"Would I recognize her?" J wondered, throat tightening.

"You recognize me, don't you?"

J pondered this. "Now I do, now that I remember you. Why are you still wearing those clothes? You died in those clothes. Does that mean I have to remain in this pitiful hospital gown if I leave here today?" He shuddered at the thought.

"Nah," Jerome said gently. "Your mind just dressed me in the outfit you last saw me in. I'm not really wearing these clothes. I'm not wearin' any clothes actually!" He laughed and laughed, delighted in the horrified expression on his brother's face. "Stop! Stop looking at me like...ha ha...that. None of us need clothes. We're what you call ephemeral. Spirits. You'll get the hang of it."

"Not without saying goodbye to Bruce. I...he needs me. Maybe more than I need him. I hadn't really believed it until he started coming to see me, but he feels responsible for me and I guess I feel responsible for him too, in a way." J mused at this realization. "We're symbiotic."

"Just wait a minute," Jerome said, getting testy. "I want answers. You're standing here yammering about rich boy, and still haven't told me why the fuck you dreamed about me molesting you! I never did any such thing! Not to you or any one. For Christ's sake! Why that? I would never have even considered touching you like..."

"Because that's what it felt like!" J yelled, so loud that Jerome's head snapped back and his eyes widened in shock. 

"What? But I..."

"Shut up! Let me finish," J insisted, smacking the rail of the hospital bed. "You were constantly fawning over me; hugging me, kissing me, play fighting with me." J shivered, backing up a few paces and rubbing his upper arms. "Putting me in a headlock, blowing raspberries on my stomach, never leaving me alone."

"But I loved you, Miah," Jerome said, deflated. "We would hold hands and walk around the fairgrounds. I'd put my arm around you and tug you close so you would feel safe..."

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no?" Jerome demanded. "You were safe."

J set his jaw and bit out his next words with contention.

"No, I was smothered." 

Jerome stared at his brother in dismay. "Smothered? Miah, I wanted you to feel loved."

"I hated it. Every single minute of it." J cringed. "I hated being touched. By you or anyone. It wasn't until I was an adult that I allowed people to touch me, and only on my own terms."

"You mean you were serious when you said that?" Jerome moved closer and almost reached out to take hold of J's arm. He pulled his gloved hand back at the last minute when he saw his brother flinch. "I always thought you were just being a whiny brat."

"Yes, I was serious. Every time someone hugged me, it felt like they were choking the life out of me. I hated it. Not because it was you, Jerome," J said sadly. "It was the same with anyone. Mother’s touch made my skin crawl. Uncle Zack's slap on the back made my stomach churn. Your overenthusiastic hugging made me feel trapped."

"I never meant to..."

"You wouldn't stop. Since I couldn't get you to stop messing with me, I made up stories. Planted fake evidence. Choked myself out, cut myself, covered myself with bruises. I was so desperate to get away, i did anything to get Mother's attention. I knew I couldn't make it on my own if I ran. So I did what I could to make Mother send me away under the guise of protecting me from you. In a way, wasn't a guise at all. No, Jerome. You never hit me, you never hurt me, you never sexually molested me. But you may as well have. By ignoring my pleas to stop, you made me feel helpless and unheard and incapable of being my own person. I was just an extension of you."

As stunned as Jerome was, he was horrified that his overly demonstrative nature is what drove his brother away. "I laid awake night after night, wondering why you'd turned everyone against me. You're telling me it's because I loved you _too_ much?"

"Didn't you hear a thing I just said, Jay?" Jerome's eyes widened at the use of that long-buried nickname. J didn't even realize he'd said it. "I said you wouldn't stop smothering me, even after I told you to quit it - time after time. You disregarded my feelings. It was always about what you wanted. You wanted to be the wonderful, huggy big brother. I wanted to just be left alone. If I hadn't gotten away from you, I probably would have killed you when I was strong enough to do it. Why couldn't you have just left me alone?"

"Fuck." Jerome turned away, tears in his eyes.


End file.
